(iiliiifi 


■:ilii 


Iti 
J  Iff/. 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ev. 


auR 


a. 


<Z/^i 


ALPHONSE    DAUDET 


The  Nabob 


TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    FRENCH 
BY    W.    BLAYDES 

WITH    A    CRITICAL    INTRODUCTION 
BY    PROF.    W.    P.    TRENT 

A     FRONTISPIECE     AND     NUMEROUS 

OTHER        PORTRAITS        WITH 

DESCRIPTIVE  NOTES  BY 

OCTAVE     UZANNE 


P.  F.  COLLIER   &^   SON 
NEW    YORK 


COPYRIGHT,     1902 
BY    D.     APPLETON    Ic    COMPANY 


INTRODUCTION 


Daudet  once  remarked  that  England  was  the  last 
of  foreign  countries  to  welcome  his  novels,  and  that  he 
was  surprised  at  the  fact,  since  for  him,  as  for  the  typical 
Englishman,  the  intimacy  of  home  life  had  great  sig- 
nificance. However  long  he  may  have  taken  to  win 
Anglo-Saxon  hearts,  there  is  no  question  that  he  finally 
won  them  more  completely  than  any  other  contempo- 
rary French  novelist  was  able  to  do,  and  that  when  but 
a  few  years  since  the  news  came  that  death  had  released 
him  from  his  sufferings,  thousands  of  men  and  women, 
both  in  England  and  in  America,  felt  that  they  had  lost 
a  real  friend.  Just  at  the  present  moment  one  does  not 
hear  or  read  a  great  deal  about  him,  but  a  similar  lull 
in  criticism  follows  the  deaths  of  most  celebrities  of 
whatever  kind,  and  it  can  scarcely  be  doubted  that  Dau- 
det is  every  day  making  new  friends,  while  it  is  as  sure 
as  anything  of  the  sort  can  be  that  it  is  death,  not 
estrangement,  that  has  lessened  the  number  of  his  former 
admirers. 

"  Admirers  "?  The  word  is  much  too  cold.  "  Lov- 
ers "  would  serve  better,  but  is  perhaps  too  expansive 
to  be  used  of  a  self-contained  race.  "  Friends  "  is  more 
appropriate  because  heartier,  for  hearty  the  relations 
between  Daudet  and  his  Anglo-Saxon  readers  certainly 

V  Vol.   18— A 

654950 


Introduction 

were.  Whether  it  was  that  some  of  us  saw  in  him  that 
hitherto  unguessed-at  phenomenon,  a  French  Dickens — 
not  an  imitator,  indeed,  but  a  kindred  spirit — or  that 
others  found  in  him  a  refined,  a  volatihzed  "  Mark 
Twain,"  with  a  flavour  of  Cervantes,  or  that  still  others 
welcomed  him  as  a  writer  of  naturalistic  fiction  that  did 
not  revolt,  or  finally  that  most  of  us  enjoyed  him  be- 
cause whatever  he  wrote  was  as  steeped  in  the  radiance 
of  his  own  exquisitely  charming  personality  as  a  picture 
of  Corot's  is  in  the  light  of  the  sun  itself — whatever  may 
have  been  the  reason,  Alphonse  Daudet  could  count  be- 
fore he  died  thousands  of  genuine  friends  in  England 
and  America  who  were  loyal  to  him  in  spite  of  the  de- 
clining power  shown  in  his  latest  books,  in  spite  even  of 
the  strain  which  Sapho  laid  upon  their  Puritan  con- 
sciences. 

It  is  likely  that  a  majority  of  these  friends  were  won 
by  the  two  great  Tartarin  books  and  by  the  chief  novels, 
Fromont,  Jack,  The  Nabob,  Kings  in  Exile,  and  Niima, 
aided  by  the  artistic  sketches  and  short  stories  contained 
in  Letters  from  my  Mill  and  Monday  Tales  (Contes  dn 
Lundi).  The  strong  but  overwrought  Evangelist,  Sapho 
— which  of  course  belongs  with  the  chief  novels  from  the 
Continental  but  not  from  the  insular  point  of  view — and 
the  books  of  Daudet's  decadence,  The  Immortal  and  the 
rest,  cost  him  few  friendships,  but  scarcely  gained  him 
many.  His  delightful  essays  in  autobiography,  whether 
in  fiction,  Le  Petit  Chose  {Little  Whafs-his-Name),  or  in 
Thirty  Years  of  Paris  and  Souvenirs  of  a  Man  of  Let- 
ters, doubtless  sealed  more  friendships  than  they  made; 
but  they  can  be  almost  as  safely  recommended  as  the 
more  notable  novels  to  readers  who  have  yet  to  make 
Daudet's  acquaintance. 

vi 


Introduction 

For  the  man  and  his  career  are  as  unaffectedly  charm- 
ing as  his  style,  and  more  of  a  piece  than  his  elaborate 
works  of  fiction.  A  sunny  ProveuQal  childhood  is 
clouded  by  family  misfortunes;  then  comes  a  year  of 
wretched  slavery  as  usher  in  a  provincial  school;  then 
the  inevitable  journey  to  Paris  with  a  brain  full  of  verses 
and  dreams,  and  the  beginning  of  a  life  of  Bohemian 
nonchalance,  to  which  we  Anglo-Saxons  have  little  that 
is  comparable  outside  the  career  of  Oliver  Goldsmith. 
But  poor  Goldsmith  had  his  pride  wounded  by  the  edi- 
torial tyranny  of  a  Mrs,  Griffiths.  Daudet,  by  a  merely 
pretty  poem  about  a  youth  and  maiden  making  love 
under  a  plum-tree,  won  the  protection  of  the  Empress 
Eugenie,  and  through  her  of  the  Duke  de  Morny,  the 
prop  of  the  Second  Empire.  His  life  now  reads  like  a 
fairy-tale  inserted  by  some  jocular  elf  into  that  book  of 
dolors  entitled  The  Lives  of  Men  of  Genius.  A  protege 
of  a  potentate  not  usually  lavish  of  his  favours,  and  a 
valetudinarian,  he  is  allowed  to  flit  to  Algiers  and  Cor- 
sica, to  enjoy  his  beloved  Provence  in  company  with 
Mistral,  to  write  for  the  theatres,  and  to  continue  to  play 
the  Bohemian.  Then  the  death  of  Morny  seems  to  turn 
the  idyl  into  a  tragedy,  but  only  for  a  moment.  Dau- 
det's  delicate,  nervous  beauty  made  his  friend  Zola  think 
of  an  Arabian  horse,  but  the  poet  had  also  the  spirit  of 
such  a  high-bred  steed.  Years  of  conscientious  literary 
labour  followed,  cheered  by  marriage  with  a  woman  of 
genius  capable  of  supplementing  him  in  his  weakest 
points,  and  then  the  war  with  Prussia  and  its  attendant 
horrors  gave  him  the  larger  and  deeper  view  of  life 
and  the  intensified  patriotism  —  in  short,  the  final 
stimulus  he  needed.  From  the  date  of  his  first  great 
success — Fromont,  Jr.,  and  Risler,  Sr. — glory  and  wealth 

vii 


Introduction 

flowed  in  upon  him,  while  envy  scarcely  touched  him, 
so  unspoiled  was  he  and  so  continuously  and  eminent- 
ly lovable.  One  seemed  to  see  in  his  career  a  reflection 
of  his  luminous  nature,  a  revised  myth  of  the  golden 
touch,  a  new  version  of  the  fairy-tale  of  the  fair  mouth 
dropping  pearls.  Then,  as  though  grown  weary  of  the 
idyllic  romance  she  was  composing,  Fortune  donned 
the  tragic  robes  of  Nemesis.  Years  of  pain  followed, 
which  could  not  abate  the  spirits  or  disturb  the  geniality 
of  the  sufferer,  but  did  somewhat  abate  the  power  and 
disturb  the  serenity  of  his  work.  Then  came  the  inevita- 
ble end  of  all  life  dramas,  whether  comic  or  romantic  or 
tragic,  and  friends  who  had  known  him  stood  round  his 
grave  and  listened  sadly  to  the  touching  words  in  which 
Emile  Zola  expressed  not  merely  his  own  grief  but  that 
of  many  thousands  throughout  the  civilized  world.  Here 
was  a  life  more  winsome,  more  appealing,  more  complete 
than  any  creation  of  the  genius  of  the  man  that  lived  it — 
a  life  which,  whether  we  know  it  in  detail  or  not,  explains 
in  part  the  fascination  Daudet  exerts  upon  us  and  the 
conviction  we  cherish  that,  whatever  ravages  time  may 
make  among  his  books,  the  memory  of  their  writer  will 
not  fade  from  the  hearts  of  men.  Many  Frenchmen  have 
conquered  the  world's  mind  by  the  power  or  the  subtlety 
of  their  genius;  few  have  won  its  heart  through  the 
catholicity,  the  broad  sympathy  of  their  genius.  Daudet 
is  one  of  these  few;  indeed,  he  is  almost  if  not  quite  the 
only  European  writer  who  has  of  late  achieved  such  a 
triumph,  for  Tolstoi  has  stern  critics  as  well  as  steadfast 
devotees,  and  has  won  most  of  his  disciples  as  moralist 
and  reformer.  But  we  must  turn  from  Daudet  the  man 
to  Daudet  the  author  of  The  Nabob  and  other  memorable 
novels. 

«  «  • 

viu 


Introduction 

If  this  were  a  general  essay  and  not  an  introduction, 
it  would  be  proper  to  say  something  of  Daudet's  early 
attempts  as  poet  and  dramatist.  Here  it  need  only  be 
remarked  that  it  is  almost  a  commonplace  to  insist  that 
even  in  his  later  novels  he  never  entirely  ceased  to  see 
the  outer  world  with  the  eyes  of  a  poet,  to  delight  in 
colour  and  movement,  to  seize  every  opportunity  to  in- 
dulge in  vivid  description  couched  in  a  style  more  swift 
and  brilliant  than  normal  prose  aspires  to.  This  bent 
for  description,  together  with  the  tendency  to  episodic 
rather  than  sustained  composition  and  the  comparative 
weakness  of  his  character  drawing — features  of  his  work 
shortly  to  be  discussed — partly  explains  his  failure,  save 
in  one  or  two  instances,  to  score  a  real  triumph  with  his 
plays,  but  does  not  explain  his  singular  lack  of  sympathy 
with  actors.  Nor  was  he  able  to  win  great  success  with 
his  first  book  of  importance,  Le  Petit  Chose,  delightful  as 
that  mixture  of  autobiography  and  romance  must  prove 
to  any  sympathetic  reader.  He  was  essentially  a  roman- 
ticist and  a  poet  cast  upon  an  age  of  naturalism  and 
prose,  and  he  needed  years  of  training  and  such  experi- 
ence as  the  Prussian  invasion  gave  him  to  adjust  himself 
to  his  life-work.  Such  adjustment  was  not  needed  for 
Tartarin  de  Tarascon,  begun  shortly  after  Le  Petit-  Chose^ 
because  subtle  humour  of  the  kind  lavished  in  that 
inimitable  creation  and  in  its  sequels,  while  implying 
observation,  does  not  necessarily  imply  any  marked 
departure  from  the  romantic  and  poetic  points  of  view. 

The  training  Daudet  required  for  his  novels  he  got 
from  the  sketches  and  short  stories  that  occupied  him 
during  the  late  sixties  and  early  seventies.  Here  again 
little  in  the  way  of  comment  need  be  given,  and  that 
little  can  but  express  the  general  verdict  that  the  art 

ix 


Introduction 

displayed  in  these  miniature  productions  is  not  far  short 
of  perfect.  The  two  principal  collections,  Lettres  de 
mon  Moulin  and  Contes  du  Lundi,  together  with  Artists' 
Wives  {Les  Femmes  d' Artistes)  and  parts  at  least  of 
Robert  Hclmont,  would  almost  of  themselves  suffice  to  put 
Daudet  high  in  the  ranks  of  the  writers  who  charm  w-ith- 
out  leaving  upon  one's  mind  the  slightest  suspicion  that 
they  are  weak.  It  is  true  that  Daudet's  stories  do  not 
attain  the  tremendous  impressiveness  that  Balzac's  oc- 
casionally do,  as,  for  example,  in  La  Grande  Breteche, 
nor  has  his  clear-cut  art  the  almost  disconcerting  firm- 
ness, the  surgeon-like  quality  of  Maupassant's;  but  the 
author  of  the  ironical  Elixir  of  Father  Gaucher  and  of  the 
pathetic  Last  Class,  to  name  no  others,  could  certainly 
claim  with  Musset  ihat  his  glass  was  his  own,  and  had  no 
reason  to  concede  its  smallness. 

As  we  have  seen,  the  production  of  Fromont  jeune 
et  Risler  ami  marked  the  beginning  of  Daudet's  more 
than  twenty  years  of  successful  novel-writing.  His 
first  elaborate  study  of  Parisian  life,  while  it  indi- 
cated no  advance  of  the  art  of  fiction,  deserved  its 
popularity  because,  in  spite  of  the  many  criticisms  to 
which  it  was  open,  it  was  a  thoroughly  readable  and 
often  a  moving  book.  One  character,  Delobelle,  the 
played-out  actor  who  is  still  a  hero  to  his  pathetic  wife 
and  daughter,  was  constructed  on  effective  lines — was  a 
personage  worthy  of  Dickens.  The  vile  heroine,  Si- 
donie,  was  bad  enough  to  excite  disgusted  interest,  but, 
as  Mr.  Henry  James  pointed  out  later,  she  was  not 
effective  to  the  extent  her  creator  doubtless  hoped.  She 
paled  beside  Valerie  Marneffe,  though,  to  be  sure,  Dau- 
det knew  better  than  to  attempt  to  depict  any  such 
queen  of  vice.    Yet,  after  all,  it  is  mainly  the  compelling 

X 


Introduction 

power  of  vile  heroines  that  makes  them  tolerable,  and 
neither  Sidonie  nor  the  web  of  intrigue  she  wove  can 
fairly  be  said  to  be  characterized  by  extraordinary 
strength.  But  the  pubHc  was  and  is  interested  greatly 
by  the  novel,  and  Daudet  deserved  the  fame  and  money 
it  brought  him.  His  next  book,  Jack,  was  not  so 
popular.  Still,  it  showed  artistic  improvement,  al- 
though, as  in  its  predecessor,  that  bias  towards  the  senti- 
mental, which  was  to  be  Daudet's  besetting  weakness, 
was  too  plainly  visible.  Its  author  took  to  his  heart  a 
book  which  the  general  reader  found  too  long  and  per- 
haps overpathetic.  Some  of  us,  while  recognising  its 
faults,  will  share  in  part  Daudet's  predilection  for  it — 
not  so  much  because  of  the  strong  and  early  study  made 
of  the  artisan  class,  or  of  the  mordantly  satirical  expo- 
sure of  D'Argenton  and  his  literary  "  dead-beats " 
(rates),  or  of  any  other  of  the  special  features  of  a  story 
that  is  crowded  with  them,  as  because  the  ill-fated  hero, 
the  product  of  genuine  emotions  on  Daudet's  part,  ex- 
cites cognate  and  equally  genuine  emotions  in  us.  We 
cannot  watch  the  throbbing  engines  of  a  great  steam- 
ship without  seeing  Jack  at  work  among  them.  But  the 
fine,  pathetic  Jack  brings  us  to  the  finer,  more  pathetic 
Nabob. 

Whether  The  Nabob  is  Daudet's  greatest  novel  is  a 
question  that  may  be  postponed,  but  it  may  be  safely 
asserted  that  there  are  good  reasons  why  it  should  have 
been  chosen  to  represent  Daudet  in  the  present  series. 
It  has  been  immensely  popular,  and  thus  does  not  illus- 
trate merely  the  taste  of  an  inner  circle  of  its  author's  ad- 
mirers. It  is  not  so  subtle  a  study  of  character  as  Niima 
Roumesfan,  nor  is  it  a  drama  the  scene  of  which  is  set 
somewhat  in  a  corner  removed  from  the  world's  scrutiny 

xi 


Introduction 

and  full  comprehension,  as  is  more  or  less  the  case  with 
Kings  in  Exile.  It  is  comparatively  unamenable  to  the 
moral,  or,  if  one  will,  the  puritanical,  objections  so  natu- 
rally brought  against  Sapho.  It  obviously  represents 
Daudet's  powers  better  than  any  novel  written  after  his 
health  was  permanently  wrecked,  and  as  obviously  rep- 
resents fiction  more  adequately  than  either  of  the  Tar- 
tarin  masterpieces,  which  belong  rather  to  the  literature 
of  humour.  Besides,  it  is  probably  the  most  broadly 
effective  of  all  Daudet's  novels;  it  is  fuller  of  striking 
scenes;  and  as  a  picLure  of  life  in  the  picturesque  Second 
Empire  it  is  of  unique  importance. 

Perhaps  to  many  readers  this  last  reason  will  seem 
the  best  of  all.  However  much  we  may  moralize  about 
its  baseness  and  hollowness,  whether  with  the  Hugo  of 
Les  Chdtiments  we  scorn  and  vituperate  its  charlatan 
head  or  pity  him  profoundly  as  we  see  him  ill  and  help- 
less in  Zola's  Debacle,  most  of  us,  if  we  are  candid,  will 
confess  that  the  Second  Empire,  especially  the  Paris  of 
Morny  and  Hausmann,  of  cynicism  and  splendour,  of 
frivolity  and  chicane,  of  servile  obsequiousness  and 
haughty  pretension,  the  France  and  the  Paris  that  drew 
to  themselves  the  eyes  of  all  Europe  and  particularly  the 
eyes  of  the  watchful  Bismarck,  have  for  us  a  fascination 
almost  as  great  as  they  had  for  the  gay  and  audacious 
men  and  women  who  in  them  courted  fortune  and  chased 
pleasure  from  the  morrow  of  the  Coup  d'Etat  to  the  eve; 
of  Sedan.  A  nearly  equal  fascination  is  exerted  upon 
us  by  a  book  which  is  the  best  sort  of  historical  novel, 
since  it  is  the  product  of  its  author's  observation,  not 
of  his  reading — a  story  that  sets  vividly  before  us  the 
political  corruption,  the  financial  recklessness,  the  social 
turmoil,  the  public  ostentation,  the  private  squalor,  that 

xii 


Introduction 

led  to  the  downfall  of  an  empire  and  almost  to  that  of 
a  people. 

Daudet  drew  on  his  experiences,  and  on  the  notes 
he  was  always  accumulating,  more  strenuously  than 
he  should  have  done.  He  assures  us  that  he  la- 
boured over  The  Nabob  for  eight  months,  mainly  in 
his  bed-room,  sometimes  working  eighteen  consecu- 
tive hours,  often  waking  from  restless  sleep  with  a 
sentence  on  his  lips.  Yet,  such  is  the  irony  of  literary 
history,  the  novel  is  loosely  enough  put  together  to 
have  been  written,  one  might  suppose,  in  bursts  of 
inspiration  or  else  more  or  less  methodically — almost 
with  the  intention,  as  Mr.  James  has  noted,  of  in- 
cluding every  striking  phase  of  Parisian  Hfe.  For  it  is 
a  series  of  brilliant,  effective  episodes  and  scenes,  not  a 
closely  knit  drama.  Jenkins's  visit  to  Monpavon  at  his 
toilet,  the  dejeuner  at  the  Nabob's,  the  inspection  of 
the  CEuvre  de  Bethleem — which  would  have  delighted 
Dickens — the  collapse  of  the  fetes  of  the  Bey,  the  Na- 
bob's thrashing  Moessard,  the  death  of  Mora,  Felicia's 
attempt  to  escape  the  funeral  of  the  duke,  the  interview 
between  the  Nabob  and  Hemerlingue,  the  baiting  in  the 
Chamber,  the  suicide  of  that  supreme  man  of  tone,  Mon- 
pavon, the  Nabob's  apoplectic  seizure  in  the  theatre — 
these  and  many  other  scenes  and  episodes,  together  with 
descriptions  and  touches,  stand  out  in  our  memories 
more  distinctly  and  impressively  than  the  characters  do 
— perhaps  more  so  than  does  the  central  motive,  the 
outrageous  exploitation  of  the  naive  hero.  For  from  the 
beginning  of  his  career  to  the  end  Daudet's  eye,  like  that 
of  a  genuine  but  not  supereminent  poet,  was  chiefly 
attracted  by  colour,  movement,  effective  pose — in  other 
words,  by  the  surfaces  of  things.    One  may  almost  say 

xiii 


Introduction 

that  he  was  more  of  a  landscape  engineer  than  of  an 
architect  and  builder,  although  one  must  at  once  add 
that  he  could  and  did  erect  solid  structures.  But  the 
reader  at  least  helps  greatly  to  lay  the  foundations,  for, 
to  drop  the  metaphor,  Daudet  relied  largely  on  sugges- 
tion, contenting  himself  with  the  belief  that  a  capable 
imagination  could  fill  up  the  gaps  he  left  in  plot  and 
character  analysis.  Thus,  for  example,  he  indicated  and 
suggested  rather  than  detailed  the  way  in  which  Hem- 
erlingue  finally  triumphed  over  the  Nabob,  Jansoulet. 
To  use  another  figure,  he  drew  the  spider,  the  fly,  and 
a  few  strands  of  the  web.  The  Balzac  whose  bust  looked 
satirically  down  upon  the  two  adventurers  in  Pere  la 
Chaise  would  probably  have  given  us  the  whole  web. 
This  is  not  quite  to  say  that  Daudet  is  plausible,  Balzac 
inevitable;  but  rather  that  we  stroll  with  the  former 
master  and  follow  submissively  in  the  footsteps  of  the 
latter.  Yet  a  caveat  is  needed,  for  the  intense  interest 
we  take  in  the  characters  of  a  novel  like  The  Nabob 
scarcely  suggests  strolling. 

For  although  Daudet,  in  spite  of  his  abounding  sym- 
pathy, which  is  one  reason  of  his  great  attractiveness, 
cannot  fairly  be  said  to  be  a  great  character  creator,  he 
had  sufficient  flexibility  and  force  of  genius  to  set  in 
action  interesting  personages.  Part  of  the  early  success 
of  The  Nabob  was  due  to  this  fact,  although  the  brilliant 
description  of  the  Second  Empire  and  the  introduction 
of  exotic  elements,  the  Tunisian  and  Corsican  episodes 
and  characters,  counted,  probably,  for  not  a  little. 
Readers  insisted  upon  seeing  in  the  book  this  person  and 
that  more  or  less  thinly  disguised.  The  Irish  adven- 
turer-physician, Jenkins,  was  supposed  to  be  modelled 
upon  a  popular  Dr.  Ollifife;  the  arsenic  pills  were  derived 

xiv 


Introduction 

from  another  source,  as  was  also  the  goat's-milk  hospital 
for  infants.  FeHcia  Ruys  was  thought  by  some  to  be 
Sarah  Bernhardt,  and  originals  were  easily  provided  for 
Monpavon  and  the  other  leading  figures.  But  Daudet 
confessed  to  only  two  important  originals,  and  if  one 
does  not  take  an  author's  word  in  such  matters  one  soon 
finds  one's  self  in  a  maze  of  conjectures  and  contra- 
dictions. 

The  two  characters  drawn  from  life  in  a  special  sense 
— for  Daudet,  like  most  other  writers  of  fiction,  had 
human  life  in  general  constantly  before  him — are  Jan- 
soulet  and  Mora,  precisely  the  most  effective  person- 
ages in  the  book,  and  scarcely  surpassed  in  the  whole 
range  of  Daudet's  fiction.  The  Nabob  was  Frangois 
Bravay,  who  rose  from  poverty  to  wealth  by  devious 
transactions  in  the  Orient,  and  came  to  grief  in  Paris, 
much  as  Jansoulet  did.  He  survived  the  Empire,  and  his 
relatives  are  said  to  have  been  incensed  at  the  treatment 
given  him  in  the  novel,  an  attitude  on  their  part  which 
is  explicable  but  scarcely  justifiable,  since  Daudet's  sym- 
pathy for  his  hero  could  not  well  have  been  greater,  and 
since  the  adventurer  had  already  attained  a  notoriety 
that  was  not  likely  to  be  completely  forgotten.  Whether 
Daudet  was  as  much  at  liberty  to  make  free  with  the 
character  of  his  benefactor  Morny  is  another  matter. 
He  himself  thought  that  he  was,  and  he  was  a  man  of 
delicate  sensitiveness.  Probably  he  was  right  in  claim- 
ing that  the  natural  son  of  Queen  Hortense,  the  intrepid 
soldier,  the  author  of  the  Coup  d'Efaf  that  set  his  weaker 
half-brother  on  the  throne,  the  dandy,  the  libertine,  the 
leader  of  fashion,  the  cynical  statesman — in  short,  the 
"  Richelieu-Brummel  "  who  drew  the  eyes  of  all  Europe 
upon  himself,  would  not  have  been  in  the  least  discon- 

XV 


Introduction 

certed  could  he  have  known  that  thirteen  years  after  his 
death  the  piibUc  would  be  discussing  him  as  the  proto- 
type of  the  Mora  of  his  young  proteges  masterpiece.  In 
fact,  it  is  easy  to  agree  with  those  critics  who  think  that 
Daudet's  kindly  nature  caused  him  to  soften  many  fea- 
tures of  Morny's  unlovely  character.  Mora  does  not, 
indeed,  win  our  love  or  our  esteem,  but  we  confess  him 
to  have  been  in  every  respect  an  exceptional  man,  and 
there  is  not  a  page  in  which  he  appears  that  is  not  in- 
tensely interesting.  He  must  be  an  unimpressionable 
reader  who  soon  forgets  the  death-room  scenes,  the  de- 
struction of  the  compromising  letters,  the  spectacular 
funeral. 

Of  the  other  characters  there  is  little  space  to  speak 
here.  Nearly  all  have  their  good  points,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected of  the  creator  of  his  two  fellow  Provencals, 
Numa  and  Tartarin,  the  latter  being  probably  the  only 
really  cosmopolitan  figure  in  recent  literature;  but 
some,  like  the  Hemerlingues,  verge  upon  mere  sketches; 
others,  like  Jansoulet's  obese  wife,  upon  caricatures. 
The  old  mother  is  excellently  done,  however,  and  Mon- 
pavon,  especially  in  his  suicide,  is  nothing  short  of  a 
triumph  of  art.  It  is  the  more  or  less  romantic  or  senti- 
mental personages  that  give  the  critic  most  qualms. 
Daudet  seems  to  have  introduced  them — De  Gery,  the 
Joyeuse  family,  and  the  rest — as  a  concession  to  popular 
taste,  and  on  this  score  was  probably  justified.  A  fair 
case  may  also  be  made  out  for  the  use  of  idyllic  scenes  as 
a  foil  to  the  tragical,  for  the  Shakespearian  critics  have 
no  monopoly  of  the  overworked  plea,  "  justification  by 
contrast."  Nor  could  a  French  analogue  of  Dickens 
easily  resist  the  temptation  to  give  us  a  fatuous  Passa- 
jon,  an  ebullient  Pere  Joyeuse — who  seems  to  have  been 

xvi 


Introduction 

partly  modelled  on  a  real  person — an  exemplary  "  Bonne 
Maman,"  a  struggling  but  eventually  triumphant  Andre 
Maranne.  The  home-lover  Daudet  also  felt  the  neces- 
sity of  showing  that  Paris  could  set  the  Joyeuse  house- 
hold, sunny  in  its  poverty,  over  against  the  stately  ele- 
gance of  the  Mora  palace,  the  walls  of  which  listened  at 
one  and  the  same  moment  to  the  music  of  a  ball  and  the 
death-rattle  of  its  haughty  owner.  But  when  all  is  said, 
it  remains  clear  that  Tlw  Nabob  is  open  to  the  charge 
that  applies  to  all  the  greater  novels  save  Sapho — the 
charge  that  it  exhibits  a  somewhat  inharmonious  mix- 
ture of  sentimentalism  and  naturalism.  Against  this 
charge,  which  perhaps  applies  most  forcibly  to  that 
otherwise  almost  perfect  work  of  art,  Numa  Roumes- 
tan,  Daudet  defended  himself,  but  rather  weakly.  Nor 
does  Mr.  Henry  James,  who  in  the  case  of  the  last-named 
novel  comes  to  his  help  against  Zola,  much  mend  mat- 
ters. But  the  fault,  if  fault  it  be,  is  venial,  especially  in  a 
friend,  though  not  strictly  a  coworker,  of  Zola's. 

Naturally  an  elaborate  novel  like  The  Nabob  lends 
itself  indefinitely  to  minute  comment,  but  we  must  be 
sparing  of  it.  Still  it  is  worth  while  to  call  attention  to 
the  skill  with  which,  from  the  opening  page,  the  interest 
of  the  reader  is  controlled;  indeed,  to  the  remarkable 
art  displayed  in  the  whole  first  chapter  devoted  to  the 
morning  rounds  of  Dr.  Jenkins.  The  note  of  romantic 
extravagance  is  on  the  whole  avoided  until  the  Nabob 
brings  out  his  check-book,  when  the  money  flies  with  a 
speed  for  which,  one  fancies,  Daudet  could  have  found 
little  justification  this  side  of  Timon  of  Athens.  In 
the  description  of  the  Caisse  Territoriak  given  by  Pas- 
sajon  this  note  is  reheved  by  a  delicate  irony,  but  seems 
still  somewhat  incongruous.    One  turns  more  willingly 

xvii 


Introduction 

to  the  description  of  Jansoulet's  sitting  down  to  play 
ecarte  with  Mora,  to  the  story  of  how  he  gorged  himself 
with  the  duke's  putative  mushrooms,  and  to  similar 
episodes  and  touches.  In  the  matter  of  effective  and 
ironically  turned  situations  few  novels  can  compare  with 
this;  indeed,  it  almost  seems  as  if  Daudet  made  an  in- 
ordinate use  of  them.  Think  of  the  poor  Nabob  read- 
ing the  announcement  of  the  cross  bestowed  on  Jenkins, 
and  of  the  absurd  populace  mistaking  him  for  the  un- 
grateful Bey!  As  for  great  dramatic  moments,  there  is 
at  least  one  that  no  reader  can  forget — the  moment 
when  Jansoulet,  in  the  midst  of  the  speech  on  which  his 
fate  depends,  catches  sight  of  his  old  mother's  face  and 
forbears  to  clear  himself  of  calumny  at  the  expense  of  his 
wretched  elder  brother.  The  situation  may  not  bear 
close  analysis,  but  who  wishes  to  analyze?  Or  who,  in- 
deed, wishes  to  indulge  in  further  comment  after  the 
scene  has  risen  to  his  mind? 

The  Nabob  was  followed  by  Kings  in  Exile;  then  came 
Numa  Roiimestan  and  The  Evangelist]  then,  on  the  eve 
of  Daudet's  breakdown,  Sapho;  and  the  greatest  of  his 
humorous  masterpieces,  Tartarin  in  the  Alps.  It  is  not 
yet  certain  what  rank  is  to  be  given  to  these  books. 
Perhaps  the  adventures  of  the  mountain-climbing  hero 
of  the  Midi,  combined  with  his  previous  exploits  as  a 
slayer  of  lions — his  experiences  as  a  colonist  in  Port- 
Tarascon  need  scarcely  be  considered — will  prove,  in  the 
lapse  of  years,  to  be  the  most  solid  foundation  of  that 
fame  which  even  envious  Time  will  hardly  begrudge 
Daudet.  As  for  Kings  in  Exile,  it  is  difHcult  to  see  how 
even  the  art  with  which  the  tragedy  of  Queen  Frede- 
rique's  life  is  unfolded  or  the  growing  power  of  charac- 
terization displayed  in  her,  in  the  loyal  Merault,  in  the 

xviii 


Introduction 

facile,  decadent  Christian,  can  make  up  for  the  lack  of 
broadly  human  appeal  in  the  general  subject-matter  of 
a  book  which  was  so  sympathetically  written  as  to  appeal 
alike  to  Legitimists  and  to  Republicans.  Good  as  Kings 
in  Exile  is,  it  is  not  so  effective  a  book  as  The  Nabob, 
nor  such  a  unique  and  marvellous  work  of  art  as  Numa 
Roumestan,  due  allowance  being  made  for  the  intrusion 
of  sentimentality  into  the  latter.  Daudet  thought  Numa 
the  "  least  incomplete  "  of  his  works;  it  is  certainly  in- 
clusive enough,  since  some  critics  are  struck  by  the 
tragic  relations  subsisting  between  the  virtuous,  dis- 
creet Northern  wife  and  the  peccable,  expansive  South- 
ern husband,  while  others  see  in  the  latter  the  hero  of  a 
comedy  of  manners  almost  worthy  of  Moliere.  If  Numa 
represents  the  highest  achievement  of  Daudet  in  dra- 
matic fiction  or  else  in  the  art  of  characterization,  The 
Evangelist  proved  that  his  genius  was  not  at  home  in 
those  fields.  Instead  of  marking  an  ordered  advance, 
this  overwrought  study  of  Protestant  bigotry  marked 
not  so  much  a  halt,  or  a  retreat,  as  a  violent  swerving  to 
one  side.  Yet  in  a  way  this  swerving  into  the  devious 
orbit  of  the  novel  of  intense  purpose  helped  Daudet  in  his 
progress  towards  naturalism,  and  imparted  something 
of  stability  to  his  methods  of  work.  Sapho,  which  ap- 
peared next,  was  the  first  of  his  novels  that  left  little  to 
be  desired  in  the  way  of  artistic  unity  and  cumulative 
power.  If  such  a  study  of  the  femme  coUante,  the  mis- 
tress who  cannot  be  shaken  off — or  rather  of  the  man 
whom  she  ruins,  for  it  is  Gaussin,  not  Sapho,  that  is  the 
main  subject  of  Daudet's  acute  analysis — was  to  be 
written  at  all,  it  had  to  be  written  with  a  resolute  art 
such  as  Daudet  applied  to  it.  It  is  not  then  surprising 
that  Continental  critics  rank  Sapho  as  its  author's  great- 

xix 


Introduction 

est  production;  it  is  more  in  order  to  wonder  what 
Daudet  might  not  have  done  in  this  Hne  of  work  had 
his  health  remained  unimpaired.  The  later  novels,  in 
which  he  came  near  to  joining  forces  with  the  natural- 
ists and  hence  to  losing  some  of  the  vogue  his  eclecti- 
cism gave  him,  need  not  detain  us. 

And  now,  in  conclusion,  how  can  we  best  character- 
ize briefly  this  fascinating,  versatile  genius,  the  most  de- 
lightful humorist  of  his  time,  one  of  the  most  artistic 
story-tellers,  one  of  the  greatest  novelists?  It  is  im- 
possible to  classify  him,  for  he  was  more  than  a  humor- 
ist, he  nearly  outgrew  romance,  he  never  accepted  unre- 
servedly the  canons  of  naturahsm.  He  obviously  does 
not  belong  to  the  small  class  of  the  supreme  writers  of 
fiction,  for  he  has  no  consistent  or  at  least  profound 
philosophy  of  life.  He  is  a  true  poet,  yet  for  the  main 
he  has  expressed  himself  not  in  verse,  but  in  prose, 
and  in  a  form  of  prose  that  is  being  so  extensively  cul- 
tivated that  its  permanence  is  daily  brought  more  and 
more  into  question.  What  is  Daudet,  and  what  will  he 
be  to  posterity?  Some  admirers  have  already  answered 
the  first  question,  perhaps  as  satisfactorily  as  it  can  be 
answered,  by  saying,  "  Daudet  is  simply  Daudet."  As 
for  the  second  question,  a  whole  school  of  critics  is  in- 
cHned  to  answer  it  and  all  similar  queries  with  the  curt 
statement,  "  That  concerns  posterity,  not  us."  If,  how- 
ever, less  evasive  answers  are  insisted  upon,  let  the  fol- 
lowing utterance,  which  might  conceivably  be  more  in- 
definite and  oracular,  suf^ce:  Alphonse  Daudet  is  one  of 
those  rare  writers  who  combine  greatness  with  a  charm 
so  intimate  and  appealing  that  some  of  us  would  not, 
if  we  could,  have  their  greatness  increased. 

W.  P.  Trent. 

XX 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTE 


Alphonse  Daudet  was  born  at  Nhnes  on  the  13th  of 
May,  1840,  He  was  the  younger  son  of  a  rich  and  enthusi' 
asficaUy  Royalist  silk-manufacturer  of  that  town,  the  nov- 
elist, Ernest  Daudet  {born  1837),  being  his  elder  brother. 
In  their  childhood,  the  father,  Vincent  Daudet,  suffered 
reverses,  and  had  to  settle  with  his  family,  in  reduced  cir- 
cumstances,  at  Lyons,  Alphonse,  in  1856,  obtained  a  post 
as  usher  in  a  school  at  Alois,  in  the  Card,  where  he  was  ex- 
tremely  unhappy.  All  these  painful  early  experiences  are 
told  very  pathetically  in  "  Le  Petit  Chose."  On  the  Jst  of 
November,  1857,  Alphonse  fled  from  the  horrors  of  his  life 
at  Alois,  and  joined  his  brother  Ernest,  zuho  had  just  se- 
cured a  post  in  the  service  of  the  Due  de  Morny  in  Paris. 
Alphonse  determined  to  live  by  his  pen,  and  presently  ob- 
tained introductions  to  the  "Figaro."  His  early  volumes 
of  verse,  "  Les  Amoureuses "  of  1858  and  "  La  Double 
Conversion  "  of  1861,  attracted  some  favourable  notice.  In 
this  latter  year  his  difficulties  ceased,  for  he  had  the  good 
fortune  to  become  one  of  the  secretaries  of  the  Due  de 
Morny,  a  post  which  he  held  for  four  years,  until  the  popu- 
larity of  his  writings  rendered  him  independent.  To  the 
generosity  of  his  patron,  moreover,  he  owed  the  opportunity 
of  visiting  Italy  and  the  East.     His  first  novel,  "  Le  Cha- 

xxi 


Biographical  Note 


peron  Rouge"  1863,  was  not  very  remarkable,  and  Daudet 
turned  to  the  stage.  His  principal  dramatic  efforts  of  this 
period  were  "  Le  Dernier  Mole,"  1862,  and  "  L'CEillet 
Blanc,"  1865.  Alphonse  Daudet's  earliest  important  work, 
however,  was  "  Le  Petit  Chose,"  1868,  a  very  pathetic  auto- 
biography of  the  first  eighteen  years  of  his  life,  over  which 
he  cast  a  thin  veil  of  romance.  After  the  death  of  the  Due 
de  Morny,  Daudet  retired  to  Provence,  leasing  a  ruined  mill 
at  Fortvielle,  in  the  valley  of  the  Rhone;  from  this  roman- 
tic solitude,  among  the  pines  and  green  oaks,  he  sent  forth 
those  exquisite  studies  of  Provengal  life,  the  "  Lettres  de 
mon  Moulin."  After  the  war,  Daudet  reappeared  in  Paris, 
greatly  strengthened  and  ripened  by  his  hermit-existence  in 
the  heart  of  Provence.  He  produced  one  masterpiece  after 
another.  He  had  studied  with  laughter  and  joy  the  mirth- 
ful side  of  southern  exaggeration,  and  he  created  a  figure  in 
which  its  peculiar  qualities  should  be  displayed,  as  it  were, 
in  excelsis.  This  study  resulted,  in  18^2,  in  "  The  Pro- 
digious Feats  of  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,"  one  of  the  most 
purely  delightful  works  of  humour  in  the  French  language. 
Alphonse  Daudet  now,  armed  with  his  cahiers,  his  little 
green-backed  books  of  notes,  set  out  to  be  a  great  historian 
of  French  manners  in  the  second  half  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. His  first  important  novel,  "  Fromont  Jeime  et  Risler 
Aine,"  18/4,  enjoyed  a  notable  success;  it  zvas  foUozved  in 
1876  by  "Jack;'  in  1878  by  " Le  Nabob,"  in  1879  by 
"  Les  Rois  en  Exil,"  in  188 1  by  "  Numa  Roumestan,"  in 
1883  by  "  L'Evangcliste,"  and  in  1884  by  "  Sapho."  These 
are  the  seven  great  romances  of  modern  French  life  on 
which  the  reputation  of  Alphonse  Daudet  as  a  novelist  is 
mainly  built.     They  placed  him,  for  the  moment  at  all 

xxii 


Biographical  Note 


events,  near  the  head  of  contemporary  European  litera- 
ture. By  this  time,  however,  a  physical  malady,  which 
Charcot  was  the  first  to  locate  in  the  spinal  cord,  had  begun 
to  exhaust  the  novelist's  powers.  This  disease,  which  took 
the  form  of  zvhat  was  supposed  to  be  neuralgia  in  1881, 
racked  him  with  pain  during  the  sixteen  remaining  years 
of  his  life,  and  gradually  destroyed  his  powers  of  loco- 
motion. It  spared  the  functions  of  the  brain,  but  it  can- 
not be  denied  that  after  1884  something  of  force  and 
spontaneous  charm  zvas  lacking  in  Daudet's  books.  He 
continued,  hozvever,  the  adventures  of  Tartarin,  first  zvith 
unabated  gusto  in  the  Alps,  then  less  happily  as  a  col- 
onist in  the  South  Seas.  He  wrote,  in  the  form  of  a 
novel,  a  bitter  satire  on  the  French  Academy,  of  zvhich  he 
was  never  a  member;  this  zvas  "  Ulmmortel"  of  1888. 
He  wrote  romances,  of  little  pozver,  the  best  being  "Rose 
et  Ninette  "  of  i8g2,  but  his  imaginative  zvork  steadily  de- 
clined in  value.  He  published  in  188/  his  reminiscences, 
"  Trente  Ans  de  Paris,"  and  later  on  his  "  Souvenirs  d'un 
Homme  de  Lettres."  He  suffered  more  and  more  from  his 
complaint,  from  the  insomnia  it  caused,  and  from  the  abuse 
of  chloral.  He  was  able,  hozuever,  to  the  last,  to  enjoy  the 
summer  at  his  country-house,  at  Champrosay,  and  even  to 
travel  in  an  invalid's  chair;  in  i8g6  he  visited  for  the  first 
time  London  and  Oxford,  and  saw  Mr.  George  Meredith. 
In  Paris  he  had  long  occupied  rooms  in  the  Rue  de  Belle- 
chasse,  where  Madame  Alphonse  Daudet  zvas  accustomed 
to  entertain  a  brilliant  company.  But  in  i8py  it  became  im- 
possible for  him  to  mount  five  flights  of  stairs  any  longer, 
and  he  moved  to  the  first  floor  of  No.  41  Rue  de  I'Universite. 
Here,  on  the  i6th  of  December,  i8p^,  as  he  was  chatting 

xxiii 


Biographical  Note 


'gaily  at  the  dinner-table^  he  uttered  a  cry,  fell  back  in  his 
chair,  and  was  dead.  The  personal  appearance  of  Alphonse 
Daudet,  in  his  prime,  was  very  striking;  he  had  clearly  cut. 
features,  large  brilliant  eyes,  and  an  amazing  exuberance 
of  curled  hair  and  forked  beard. 

E.  G. 


XXTV 


CONTENTS 


PAOCS 

Introduction v— xx 

William  Peterfield  Trent 

Life  of  Alphonse  Daudet xxi-xxiv 

Edmund  Gosse 

The  Nabob : 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.      Dr.  Jenkins's  patients 3 

II.     A  luncheon  in  the  Place  Vendome 25 

III.  Memoirs  of  an  office  porter — A  mere  glance  at  the 

Territorial  Bank 44 

IV.  A  debut  in  society 55 

V.     The  Joyeuse  family 74 

VI.      Felicia  Ruys ,  93 

VII.     Jansoulet  at  home 1 1 3 

VIII.     The  Bethlehem  Society «      .      .  I25 

IX.      Bonne  Maman 140 

X.      Memoirs  of  an  office  porter — Servants      .       .      .       .  157 

XI.     The  festivities  in  honour  of  the  Bey 174 

XII.      A  Corsican  election ,      .  196 

XIII.  A  day  of  spleen 211 

XIV.  The  Exhibition 225 

XV.      Memoirs  of  an  office  porter — In  the  antechamber        .  241 

XVI.     A  public  man 252 

XXV 


The  Nabob 

CHAPTtR  PAGE 

XVII.     The  apparition 272 

XVIII.      The  Jenkins  pearls 287 

XIX.     The  funeral 307 

XX.     La  Baronne  Hemerlingue "  326 

XXI.     The  sitting 346 

XXII.     Dramas  of  Paris 369 

XXIII.  Memoirs  of  an  office  porter — The  last  leaves      .      .  385 

XXIV.  At  Bordighera 393 

XXV.     The  first  night  of"  Revolt'* 406 

The  Portraits  of  Alphonse  Daudet  ...     42 1-430 

Octave  Uzanne 


xxn 


THE   NABOB 


THE  NABOB 


DOCTOR  JENKINS  S  PATIENTS 

Standing  on  the  steps  of  his  little  town-house  in  the  Rue 
de  Lisbonne,  freshly  shaven,  with  sparkling  eyes,  and  lips 
parted  in  easy  enjoyment,  his  long  hair  slightly  gray  flowing 
over  a  huge  coat  collar,  square  shouldered,  strong  as  an  oak, 
the  famous  Irish  doctor,  Robert  Jenkins,  Knight  of  the 
Medjrdjieh  and  of  the  distinguished  order  of  Charles  III 
of  Spain,  President  and  Founder  of  the  Bethlehem  Society. 
Jenkins  in  a  word,  the  Jenkins  of  the  Jenkins  Pills  with  an 
arsenical  base — that  is  to  say,  the  fashionable  doctor  of  the 
year  1864,  the  busiest  man  in  Paris,  was  preparing  to  step 
into  his  carriage  when  a  casement  opened  on  the  first  floor 
looking  over  the  inner  court-yard  of  the  house,  and  a  wom- 
an's voice  asked  timidly : 

"  Shall  you  be  home  for  luncheon,  Robert?" 

Oh,  how  good  and  loyal  was  the  smile  that  suddenly 
illumined  the  fine  apostle-like  head  with  its  air  of  learning, 
and  in  the  tender  "  good-morning  "  which  his  eyes  threw 
up  towards  the  warm,  white  dressing-gown  visible  behind 
the  raised  curtains ;  how  easy  it  was  to  divine  one  of  those 
conjugal  passions,  tranquil  and  sure,  which  habit  re-en- 
forces and  with  supple  and  stable  bonds  binds  closer. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Jenkins."  He  was  fond  of  thus  bestowing 
upon  her  publicly  her  title  as  his  lawful  wife,  as  if  he  found 
in  it  an  intimate  gratification,  a  sort  of  acquittal  of  con- 
science towards  the  woman  who  made  life  so  bright  for 
him.  "  No,  do  not  expect  me  this  morning.  I  lunch  in 
the  Place  Vendome." 

3  Vol.  18— B 


The  Nabob 

"  Ah !  yes,  the  Nabob,"  said  the  handsome  Mrs.  Jenkins 
with  a  very  marked  note  of  respect  for  this  personage  out 
of  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights  of  whom  all  Paris  had  been 
talking  for  the  last  month ;  then,  after  a  little  hesitation, 
very  tenderly,  in  a  quite  low  voice,  from  between  the  heavy 
tapestries,  she  whispered  for  the  ears  of  the  doctor  only : 

"  Be  sure  you  do  not  forget  what  you  promised  me." 

Apparently  it  was  something  very  difficult  to  fulfil,  for 
at  the  reminder  of  this  promise  the  eyebrows  of  the  apostle 
contracted  into  a  frown,  his  smile  became  petrified,  his 
whole  visage  assumed  an  expression  of  incredible  hardness ; 
but  it  was  only  for  an  instant.  At  the  bedside  of  their  rich 
patients  the  physiognomies  of  these  fashionable  doctors 
become  expert  in  lying.  In  his  most  tender,  most  cordial 
manner,  he  replied,  disclosing  a  row  of  dazzling  white 
teeth : 

"  What  I  promised  shall  be  done,  Mrs.  Jenkins.  And 
now,  go  in  quickly  and  shut  your  window.  The  fog  is  cold 
this  morning." 

Yes,  the  fog  was  cold,  but  white  as  snow  mist;  and, 
filling  the  air  outside  the  glasses  of  the  large  brougham,  it 
brightened  with  soft  gleams  the  unfolded  newspaper  in  the 
doctor's  hands.  Over  yonder,  in  the  populous  quarters,  con- 
fined and  gloomy,  in  the  Paris  of  tradesman  and  mechanic, 
that  charming  morning  haze  which  lingers  in  the  great  thor- 
oughfares is  not  known.  The  bustle  of  awakening,  the  go- 
ing and  coming  of  the  market-carts,  of  the  omnibuses,  of  the 
heavy  trucks  rattling  their  old  iron,  have  early  and  quickly 
cut  it  up,  unravelled  and  scattered  it.  Every  passer-by  car- 
ries away  a  little  of  it  in  a  threadbare  otercoat,  a  muffler 
which  shows  the  woof,  and  coarse  gloves  rubbed  one  against 
the  other.  It  soaks  through  the  thin  blouses,  and  the 
mackintoshes  thrown  over  the  working  skirts ;  it  melts 
away  at  every  breath  that  is  drawn,  warm  from  sleeplessness 
or  alcohol ;  it  is  engulfed  in  the  depths  of  empty  stomachs, 
dispersed  in  the  shops  as  they  are  opened,  and  the  dark 
courts,  or  along  staircases  of  which  it  bathes  the  rails  and 
walls,  even  to  the  fireless  attics.  That  is  the  reason  why 
there  remains  so  little  of  it  out  of  doors.     But  in  that  spa- 

4 


Doctor  Jenkins's  Patients 

cious  and  grandiose  region  of  Paris,  which  was  inhabited 
by  Jenkins's  cHents,  on  those  wide  boulevards  planted  with 
trees,  and  those  deserted  quays,  the  fog  hovered  without  a 
stain,  like  so  many  sheets,  with  waverings  and  cotton  wool- 
like flakes.  The  effect  was  of  a  place  inclosed,  secret,  al- 
most sumptuous,  as  the  su-  after  his  slothful  rising  began 
to  diffuse  softly  crimsonec  tints,  ^'-hich  gave  to  the  mist 
enshrouding  the  rows  of  houses  to  their  summits  the  ap- 
pearance of  white  muslin  thrown  ovt*-  some  scarlet  material. 
One  might  have  fancied  it  a  '^-eat  curtain  sheltering  the 
late  and  light  sleep  of  wealth,  the  heavy  curtain  beneath 
which  nothing  could  be  heard  save  the  cautious  closing  of 
some  court-yard  gate,  the  tin  measuring-cans  of  the  milk- 
men, the  little  bells  of  a  herd  of  she-asses  passing  at  a 
quick  trot  followed  by  the  short  and  panting  breath  of  their 
shepherd,  and  the  dull  rumble  of  Jenkins's  brougham  com- 
mencing its  daily  round. 

First,  to  Mora  House.  This  was  a  magnificent  palace  on 
the  Quai  d'Orsay,  next  door  to  the  Spanish  embassy,  whose 
long  terraces  succeeded  its  own,  having  its  principal  en- 
trance in  the  Rue  de  Lille,  and  a  door  upon  the  side  next 
the  river.  Between  two  lofty  walls  overgrown  with  ivy, 
and  united  by  imposing  vaulted  arches,  the  brougham  shot 
in,  announced  by  two  strokes  of  a  sonorous  bell  which 
roused  Jenkins  from  the  reverie  into  which  the  reading  of 
his  newspaper  seemed  to  have  plunged  him.  Then  the 
noise  of  the  wheels  became  deadened  on  the  sand  of  a  vast 
court-yard,  and  they  drew  up,  after  describing  an  elegant 
curve,  before  the  steps  of  the  mansion,  which  were  sur- 
rounded by  a  large  circular  awning.  In  the  obscurity  of  the 
fog,  a  dozen  carriages  could  be  seen  ranged  in  line,  and  along 
an  avenue  of  acacias,  quite  withered  at  that  season  and  leaf- 
less in  their  bark,  the  profiles  of  English  grooms  leading 
out  the  saddle-horses  of  the  duke  for  their  exercise.  Every- 
thing revealed  a  luxury  thought-out,  settled,  grandiose,  and 
assured. 

"  It  is  quite  useless  for  me  to  come  early ;  others  always 
arrive  before  me,"  said  Jenkins  to  himself  as  he  saw  the 
file  in  which  his  brougham  took  its  place ;  but,  certain  of 

5 


The  Nabob 

not  having  to  wait,  with  head  carried  high,  and  an  air  of 
tranquil  authority,  he  ascended  that  official  flight  of  steps 
which  is  mounted  every  day  by  so  many  trembling  am- 
bitions, so  many  anxieties  on  hesitating  feet. 

From  the  very  antechamber,  lofty  and  resonant  like  a 
church,  which,  although  calorifers  burned  night  and  day, 
possessed  two  great  wood-fires  that  filled  it  with  a  radiant 
life,  the  luxury  of  this  interior  reached  you  by  warm  and 
heady  puffs.  It  suggested  at  once  a  hot-house  and  a  Turk- 
ish bath.  A  great  deal  of  heat  and  yet  brightness ;  white 
wainscoting,  white  marbles,  immense  windows,  nothing 
stifling  or  shut  in,  and  yet  a  uniform  atmosphere  meet  for 
the  surrounding  of  some  rare  existence,  refined  and  nerv- 
ous. Jenkins  always  expanded  in  this  factitious  sun  of 
wealth ;  he  greeted  with  a  "  good-morning,  my  lads,"  the 
powdered  porter,  with  his  wide  golden  scarf,  the  footmen 
in  knee-breeches  and  livery  of  gold  and  blue,  all  standing 
to  do  him  honour;  lightly  drew  his  finger  across  the  bars 
of  the  large  cage  of  monkeys  full  of  sharp  cries  and  capers, 
and,  whistling  under  his  breath,  stepped  quickly  up  the 
staircase  of  shining  marble  laid  with  a  carpet  as  thick  as 
the  turf  of  a  lawn,  which  led  to  the  apartments  of  the  duke. 
Although  six  months  had  passed  since  his  first  visit  to 
Mora  House,  the  good  doctor  was  not  yet  become  insen- 
sible to  the  quite  physical  impression  of  gaiety,  of  frivolity, 
which  he  received  from  this  dwelling. 

Although  you  were  in  the  abode  of  the  first  official  of 
the  Empire  there  was  nothing  here  suggestive  of  the  work 
of  government  or  its  boxes  of  dusty  old  papers.  The  duke 
had  only  consented  to  accept  his  high  dignitaries  as  Min- 
ister of  State  and  President  of  the  Council  upon  the  con- 
dition that  he  should  not  quit  his  private  mansion ;  he  only 
went  to  his  office  for  an  hour  or  two  daily,  the  time  neces- 
sary to  give  the  indispensable  signatures,  and  held  his  re- 
ceptions in  his  bed-chamber.  At  this  moment,  notwith- 
standing the  earliness  of  the  hour,  the  hall  was  crowded. 
You  saw  there  grave,  anxious  faces,  provincial  prefects  with 
shaven  lips,  and  administrative  whiskers,  slightly  less  arro- 
gant in  this  antechamber  than  yonder  in  their  prefectures, 

6  ' 


Doctor  Jenkins's  Patients 

magistrates  of  austere  air,  sober  in  gesture,  deputies  im- 
portant of  manner,  big-wigs  of  the  financial  world,  rich  and 
boorish  manufacturers,  among  whom  stood  out  here  and 
there  the  slender,  ambitious  figure  of  some  substitute  of 
a  prefectorial  councillor,  in  the  garb  of  one  seeking  a  fa- 
vour, dress-coat  and  white  tie ;  and  all,  standing,  sitting,  in 
groups  or  solitary,  sought  silently  to  penetrate  with  their 
gaze  that  high  door  closed  upon  their  destiny,  by  which 
they  would  issue  forth  directly  triumphant  or  with  cast- 
down  head.  Jenkins  passed  through  the  crowd  rapidly,  and 
every  one  followed  with  an  envious  eye  this  newcomer 
whom  the  doorkeeper,  with  his  official  chain,  correct  and 
icy  in  his  demeanour,  seated  at  a  table  beside  the  door, 
greeted  with  a  little  smile  at  once  respectful  and  familiar. 

"  Who  is  with  him  ?  "  asked  the  doctor,  indicating  the 
chamber  of  the  duke. 

Hardly  moving  his  lips,  and  not  without  a  slightly  iron- 
ical glance  of  the  eye,  the  -doorkeeper  whispered  a  name 
which,  if  they  had  heard  it,  would  have  roused  the  indig- 
nation of  all  these  high  personages  who  had  been  waiting 
for  an  hour  past  until  the  costumier  of  the  opera  should 
have  ended  his  audience. 

A  sound  of  voices,  a  ray  of  light.  Jenkins  had  just  en- 
tered the  duke's  presence ;  he  never  waited,  he. 

Standing  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace,  closely  wrapped 
in  a  dressing-jacket  of  blue  fur,  the  soft  reflections  from 
which  gave  an  air  of  refinement  to  an  energetic  and  haughty 
head,  the  President  of  the  Council  was  causing  to  be  de- 
signed under  his  eyes  a  Pierrette  costume  for  the  duchess 
to  wear  at  her  next  ball,  and  was  giving  his  directions  with 
the  same  gravity  with  which  he  would  have  dictated  the 
draft  of  a  new  law. 

"  Let  the  frill  be  very  fine  on  the  rufif,  and  put  no  frills 
on  the  sleeves. — Good-morning,  Jenkins.  I  am  with  you 
directly." 

Jenkins  l)owed,  and  took  a  few  steps  in  the  immense 
room,  of  which  the  windows,  opening  on  a  garden  that  ex- 
tended as  far  as  the  Seine,  framed  one  of  the  finest  views 
of  Paris,  the  bridges,  the  Tuileries,  the  Louvre,  in  a  net- 

7 


The  Nabob 

work  of  black  trees  traced  as  it  were  in  Indian  ink  upon 
the  floating  background  of  fog.  A  large  and  very  low  bed, 
raised  by  a  few  steps  above  the  floor,  two  or  three  little 
lacquer  screens  with  vague  and  capricious  gilding,  indica- 
ting, like  the  double  doors  and  the  carpets  of  thick  wool, 
a  fear  of  cold  pushed  even  to  excess,  various  seats,  lounges, 
warmers,  scattered  about  rather  indiscriminately,  all  low, 
rounded,  indolent,  or  voluptuous  in  shape,  composed  the 
furniture  of  this  celebrated  chamber  in  which  the  gravest 
questions  and  the  most  frivolous  were  wont  to  be  treated 
alike  with  the  same  seriousness.  On  the  wall  was  a  hand- 
some portrait  of  the  duchess  ;  on  the  chimneypiece  a  bust  of 
the  duke,  the  work  of  Felicia  Ruys,  which  at  the  recent  Salon 
had  received  the  honours  of  a  first  medal. 

"Well,  Jenkins,  how  are  we  this  morning?"  said  his 
excellency,  approaching,  while  the  costumier  was  picking 
up  his  fashion-plates,  scattered  over  all  the  easy  chairs. 

"  And  you,  my  dear  duke  ?  I  thought  you  a  little  pale 
last  evening  at  the  Varietes." 

"  Come,  come !  I  have  never  felt  so  well.  Your  pills 
have  a  most  marvellous  effect  upon  me.  I  am  conscious  of  a 
vivacity,  a  freshness,  when  I  remember  how  run  down  I 
was  six  months  ago." 

Jenkins,  without  saying  anything,  had  laid  his  great  head 
against  the  fur-coat  of  the  minister  of  state,  at  the  place 
where,  in  common  men,  the  heart  beats.  He  listened  a 
moment  while  his  excellency  continued  to  speak  in  the  in- 
dolent, bored  tone  which  was  one  of  the  characteristics  of 
his  distinction. 

"And  who  was  your  companion,  doctor,  last  night? 
That  huge,  bronzed  Tartar  who  was  laughing  so  loudly  in 
the  front  of  your  box," 

"  It  was  the  Nabob,  Monsieur  le  Due.  The  famous  Jan- 
soulet,  about  whom  people  are  talking  so  much  just  now." 

"  I  ought  to  have  guessed  it.  The  whole  house  was 
watching  him.  The  actresses  played  for  him  alone.  You 
know  him  ?    What  sort  of  man  is  he  ?  " 

"  I  know  him.  That  is  to  say,  I  attend  him  profession- 
ally.— Thank  you,  my  dear  duke,  I  have  finished.     All  is 

8 


Doctor  Jenkins's  Patients 

right  in  that  region. — When  he  arrived  in  Paris  a  month  ago, 
he  had  found  the  change  of  chmate  somewhat  trying.  He 
sent  for  me,  and  since  then  has  received  me  upon  the  most 
friendly  footing.  What  I  know  of  him  is  that  he  possesses 
a  colossal  fortune,  made  in  Tunis,  in  the  service  of  the  Bey, 
that  he  has  a  loyal  heart,  a  generous  soul,  in  which  the  ideas 
of  humanity " 

"  In  Tunis?"  interrupted  the  duke,  who  was  by  nature 
very  little  sentimental  and  humanitarian.  "  In  that  case, 
why  this  name  of  Nabob  ?  " 

"  Bah !  the  Parisians  do  not  look  at  things  so  closely. 
For  them,  every  rich  foreigner  is  a  nabob,  no  matter  whence 
he  comes.  Furthermore,  this  nabob  has  all  the  physical 
qualities  for  the  part — a  copper-coloured  skin,  eyes  like 
burning  coals,  and,  what  is  more,  gigantic  w^ealth,  of  which 
he  makes,  I  do  not  fear  to  say  it,  the  most  noble  and  the  most 
intelligent  use.  It  is  to  him  that  I  owe  " — here  the  doctor 
assumed  a  modest  air — "  that  I  owe  it  that  I  have  at  last 
been  able  to  found  the  Bethlehem  Society  for  the  suckling 
of  infants,  which  a  morning  paper,  that  I  was  looking  over 
just  now — the  Messenger,  I  think — calls  '  the  great  philan- 
thropic idea  of  the  century.'  " 

The  duke  threw  a  listless  glance  over  the  sheet  which 
Jenkins  held  out  to  him.  He  was  not  the  man  to  be  caught 
by  the  turn  of  an  advertisement. 

"  He  must  be  very  rich,  this  M.  Jansoulet,"  said  he, 
coldly.  "  He  finances  Cardailhac's  theatre  ;  Monpavon  gets 
him  to  pay  his  debts ;  Bois  I'Hery  starts  a  stable  for  him ; 
old  Schwalbach  a  picture  gallery.  It  means  money,  all 
that." 

Jenkins  laughed. 

"  What  will  you  have,  my  dear  duke,  this  poor  Nabob, 
you  are  his  great  preoccupation.  Arriving  here  with  the 
firm  resolution  to  become  a  Parisian,  a  man  of  the  world, 
he  has  taken  you  for  his  model  in  everything,  and  I  do  not 
conceal  from  you  that  he  would  very  much  like  to  study 
his  model  from  a  nearer  standpoint." 

"  I  know,  I  know.  Monpavon  has  already  asked  my 
permission  to  bring  him  to  see  me.    But  I  prefer  to  wait ; 

9 


The  Nabob 

I  wish  to  see.  With  these  great  fortunes  that  come  from 
so  far  away  one  has  to  be  careful,  Mon  Dieu!  I  do  not 
say  that  if  I  should  meet  him  elsewhere  than  in  my  own 
house,  at  the  theatre,  in  a  drawing-room " 

"  As  it  just  happens,  Mrs.  Jenkins  is  proposing  to  give 
a  small  party  next  month.  If  you  would  do  us  the  hon- 
our  " 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  come,  my  dear  doctor,  and  if  your 
Nabob  should  chance  to  be  there  I  should  make  no  ob- 
jection to  his  being  presented  to  me." 

At  this  moment  the  usher  on  duty  opened  the  door. 

"  Monsieur  the  Minister  of  the  Interior  is  in  the  blue 
salon.  He  has  only  one  word  to  say  to  his  excellency. 
Monsieur  the  Prefect  of  Police  is  still  waiting  downstairs, 
in  the  gallery." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  duke,  "  I  am  coming.  But  I 
should  like  first  to  finish  the  matter  of  this  costume.  Let 
us  see — friend,  what's  your  name — what  are  we  deciding 
upon  for  these  ruffs?  Au  revoir,  doctor.  There  is  noth- 
ing to  be  done,  is  there,  except  to  continue  the  pills  ?  " 

"  Continue  the  pills,"  said  Jenkins,  bowing;  and  he  left 
the  room  beaming  with  delight  at  the  two  pieces  of  good 
fortune  which  were  befalling  him  at  the  same  time — the 
honour  of  entertaining  the  duke  and  the  pleasure  of  oblig- 
ing his  dear  Nabob.  In  the  antechamber,  the  crowd  of 
petitioners  through  which  he  passed  was  still  more  numer- 
ous than  at  his  entry ;  newcomers  had  joined  those  who  had 
been  patiently  waiting  from  the  first,  others  were  mounting 
the  staircase,  with  busy  look  and  very  pale,  and  in  the  court- 
yard the  carriages  continued  to  arrive,  and  to  range  them- 
selves on  ranks  in  a  circle,  gravely,  solemnly,  while  the  ques- 
tion of  the  sleeve  rufifs  was  being  discussed  upstairs  with  not 
less  solemnity. 

"  To  the  club,"  said  Jenkins  to  his  coachman. 

The  brougham  bowled  along  the  quays,  recrossed  the 
bridges,  reached  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  which  already 
no  longer  wore  the  same  aspect  as  an  hour  earlier.  The 
fog  was  lifting  in  the  direction  of  the  Garde-Meuble  and  the 
Greek  temple  of  the  Madeleine,  allowing  to  be  dimly  dis- 

10 


Doctor  Jenkins's  Patients 

tinguished  here  and  there  the  white  plume  of  a  jet  of  water, 
the  arcade  of  a  palace,  the  upper  portion  of  a  statue,  the 
tree-clumps  of  the  Tuileries,  grouped  in  chilly  fashion  near 
the  gates.  The  veil,  not  raised,  but  broken  in  places,  dis- 
closed fragments  of  horizon  ;  and  on  the  avenue  which  leads 
to  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  could  be  seen  brakes  passing  at  full 
trot  laden  with  coachmen  and  jobmasters,  dragoons  of  the 
Empress,  fuglemen  bedizened  with  lace  and  covered  with 
furs,  going  two  by  two  in  long  files  with  a  jangling  of  bits 
and  spurs,  and  the  snorting  of  fresh  horses,  the  whole 
lighted  by  a  sun  still  invisible,  the  light  issuing  from  the 
misty  atmosphere,  and  here  and  there  withdrawing  into  it 
again  as  if  offering  a  fleeting  vision  of  the  morning  luxury 
of  that  quarter  of  the  tovm. 

Jenkins  alighted  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Royale.  From 
top  to  bottom  of  the  great  gambling  house  the  servants 
were  passing  to  and  fro,  shaking  the  carpets,  airing  the 
rooms  where  the  fume  of  cigars  still  hung  about  and 
heaps  of  fine  glowing  ashes  were  crumbling  away  at  the 
back  of  the  hearths,  while  on  the  green  tables,  still  vibrant 
with  the  night's  play,  there  stood  burning  a  few  silver  can- 
dlesticks whose  flames  rose  straight  in  the  wan  light  of 
day.  The  noise,  the  coming  and  going,  ceased  at  the  third 
floor,  where  sundry  members  of  the  club  had  their  apart- 
ments. Among  these  was  the  Marquis  de  Monpavon, 
whose  abode  Jenkins  was  now  on  his  way  to  visit. 

"  What !  It  is  you,  doctor  ?  The  devil  take  it !  What 
is  the  time  then  ?    I'm  not  visible." 

"  Not  even  for  the  doctor?" 

"  Oh,  for  nobody.  Question  of  etiquette,  mon  cher. 
No  matter,  come  in  all  the  same.  You'll  warm  your  feet 
for  a  moment  while  Francis  finishes  doing  my  hair." 

Jenkins  entered  the  bed-chamber,  a  banal  place  like 
all  furnished  apartments,  and  moved  towards  the  fire  on 
which  there  were  set  to  heat  curling-tongs  of  all  sizes,  while 
in  the  contiguous  laboratory,  separated  from  the  room  by  a 
curtain  of  Algerian  tapestry,  the  Marquis  de  Monpavon  gave 
himself  up  to  the  manipulations  of  his  valet.  Odours  of 
patchouli,  of  cold-cream,  of  hartshorn,  and  of  singed  hair 

II 


The  Nabob 

escaped  from  the  part  of  the  room  which  was  shut  oflf,  and 
from  time  to  time,  when  Francis  came  to  fetch  a  curhng- 
iron,  Jenkins  caught  sight  of  a  huge  dressing-table  laden 
with  a  thousand  little  instruments  of  ivory,  and  mother-of- 
pearl,  with  steel  files,  scissors,  puffs,  and  brushes,  with  bot- 
tles, with  little  trays,  with  cosmetics,  labelled  and  arranged 
methodically  in  groups  and  lines ;  and  amid  all  this  display, 
awkward  and  already  shaky,  an  old  man's  hand,  shrunken 
and  long,  delicately  trimmed  and  polished  about  the  nails 
like  that  of  a  Japanese  painter,  which  faltered  about  among 
this  fine  hardware  and  doll's  china. 

While  continuing  the  process  of  making  up  his  face,  the 
longest,  the  most  complicated  of  his  morning  occupations, 
Monpavon  chatted  with  the  doctor,  told  of  his  little  ailments, 
and  the  good  effect  of  the  pills.  They  made  him  young 
again,  he  said.  And  at  a  distance,  thus,  without  seeing  him, 
one  would  have  taken  him  for  the  Due  de  Mora,  to  such  a 
degree  had  he  usurped  his  manner  of  speech.  There  were 
the  same  unfinished  phrases,  ended  by  "  ps,  ps,  ps,"  mut- 
tered between  the  teeth,  expressions  like  "  What's  its 
name  ?  "  "  Wlio  was  it  ?  "  constantly  thrown  into  what  he 
was  saying,  a  kind  of  aristocratic  stutter,  fatigued,  listless, 
W'herein  you  might  perceive  a  profound  contempt  for  the 
vulgar  art  of  speech.  In  the  society  of  which  the  duke  was 
the  centre,  every  one  sought  to  imitate  that  accent,  those  dis* 
dainful  intonations  with  an  affectation  of  simplicity. 

Jenkins,  finding  the  sitting  rather  long,  had  risen  to  take 
his  departure. 

"  Adieu,  I  must  be  off.  We  shall  see  you  at  the  Na- 
bob's?" 

"  Yes,  I  intend  to  be  there  for  luncheon.  Promised  to 
bring  him — what's  his  name.  Who  was  it?  What?  You 
know,  for  our  big  affair — ps,  ps,  ps.  Were  it  not  for  that, 
should  gladly  stay  away.    Real  menagerie,  that  house." 

The  Irishman,  despite  his  benevolence,  agreed  that  the 
society  was  rather  mixed  at  his  friend's.  But  then !  One 
could  hardly  blame  him  for  it.  The  poor  fellow,  he  knew 
no  better. 

"  Neither  knows  nor  is  willing  to  learn,"  remarked  Mon- 

12 


Doctor  Jenkins's  Patients 

pavon  with  bitterness.  "  Instead  of  consulting-  people  of  ex- 
perience— ps,  ps,  ps — first  sponger  that  comes  along.  Have 
you  seen  the  horses  that  Bois  I'Hery  has  persuaded  him  to 
buy?  Absolute  rubbish,  those  animals.  And  he  paid  twen- 
ty thousand  francs  for  them.  We  may  wager  that  Bois 
I'Hery  got  them  for  six  thousand." 

"  Oh,  for  shame — a  nobleman !  "  said  Jenkins,  with  the 
indignation  of  a  lofty  soul  refusing  to  believe  in  base- 
ness. 

Monpavon  continued,  without  seeming  to  hear : 

"  All  that  because  the  horses  came  from  Mora's  stable." 

"  It  is  true  that  the  dear  Nabob's  heart  is  very  full  of  the 
duke.  I  am  about  to  make  him  very  happy,  therefore,  when 
I  inform  him " 

The  doctor  paused,  embarrassed. 

"  When  you  inform  him  of  what,  Jenkins  ?  " 

Somewhat  abashed,  Jenkins  had  to  confess  that  he  had 
obtained  permission  from  his  excellency  to  present  to  him 
his  friend  Jansoulet.  Scarcely  had  he  finished  his  sentence 
before  a  tall  spectre,  with  flabby  face  and  hair  and  whis- 
kers diversely  coloured,  bounded  from  the  dressing-room 
into  the  chamber,  with  his  two  hands  folding  round  a  flesh- 
less  but  very  erect  neck  a  dressing-gown  of  flimsy  silk  with 
violet  spots,  in  which  he  was  wrapped  like  a  sweetmeat  in 
its  paper.  The  most  striking  thing  about  this  mock-heroic 
physiognomy  was  a  large  curved  nose  all  shiny  with  cold 
cream,  and  an  eye  alive,  keen,  too  young,  too  bright,  for 
the  heavy  and  wrinkled  eyelid  which  covered  it.  Jenkins's 
patients  all  had  that  eye. 

Monpavon  must  indeed  have  been  deeply  moved  to  show 
himself  thus  devoid  of  all  prestige.  In  point  of  fact,  with 
white  lips  and  a  changed  voice  he  addressed  the  doctor 
quickly,  without  lisp  this  tinie,  and  in  a  single  outburst : 

"  Come  now,  mon  chc, ,  no  tomfoolery  between  us,  eh  ? 
We  are  both  met  before  the  same  dish,  but  I  leave  you  your 
share.     I  intend  that  you  shall  leave  me  mine." 

And  Jenkins's  air  of  astonishment  did  not  make  him 
pause.  "  Let  this  be  said  once  for  all.  I  have  promised 
the  Nabob  to  present  him  to  the  duke,  just  as,  formerly,  I 

13 


The  Nabob 

presented  you.  Do  not  mix  yourself  up,  therefore,  witK 
what  concerns  me  alone." 

Jenkins  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart,  protested  his  inno- 
cence. He  had  never  had  any  intention.  Certainly  Mon- 
pavon  was  too  intimate  a  friend  of  the  duke,  for  any  other — 
How  could  he  have  supposed? 

"  I  suppose  nothing,"  said  the  old  nobleman,  calmer  but 
still  cold.  "  I  merely  desired  to  have  a  very  clear  explana- 
tion with  you  on  this  subject." 

The  Irishman  extended  a  widely  opened  hand. 

"  My  dear  marquis,  explanations  are  always  clear  be- 
tween men  of  honour." 

"  Honour  is  a  big  word,  Jenkins.  Let  us  say  people 
of  deportment — that  suffices." 

And  that  deportment,  which  he  invoked  as  the  supreme 
guide  of  conduct,  recalling  him  suddenly  to  the  sense  of 
his  ludicrous  situation,  the  marquis  offered  one  finger  to 
his  friend's  demonstrative  shake  of  the  hand,  and  passed 
back  with  dignity  behind  his  curtain,  while  the  other  left,  in 
haste  to  resume  his  round. 

What  a  magnificent  clientele  he  had,  this  Jenkins! 
Nothing  but  princely  mansions,  heated  staircases,  laden 
with  flowers  at  every  landing,  upholstered  and  silky  alcoves, 
where  disease  was  transformed  into  something  discreet,  ele- 
gant, where  nothing  suggested  that  brutal  hand  which 
throws  on  a  bed  of  pain  those  who  only  cease  to  work  in 
order  to  die.  They  were  not  in  any  true  speech,  sick  peo- 
ple, these  clients  of  the  Irish  doctor.  They  would  have  been 
refused  admission  to  a  hospital.  Their  organs  not  possess- 
ing even  strength  to  give  them  a  shock,  the  seat  of  their 
malady  was  to  be  discovered  nowhere,  and  the  doctor,  as  he 
bent  over  them,  might  have  sought  in  vain  the  throb  of  any 
suffering  in  those  bodies  which  the  inertia,  the  silence  of 
death  already  inhabited.  They  were  worn-out,  debilitated 
people,  ansemics,  exhausted  by  an  absurd  life,  but  who  found 
it  so  good  still  that  they  fought  to  have  it  prolonged.  And 
the  Jenkins  pills  became  famous  precisely  by  reason  of  that 
lash  of  the  whip  which  they  gave  to  jaded  existences. 

14 


Doctor  Jenkins's   Patients 

"  Doctor,  I  beseech  you,  let  me  be  fit  to  go  to  the 
ball  this  evening- !  "  the  young  woman  would  say,  pros- 
trate on  her  lounge,  and  whose  voice  was  reduced  to  a 
breath. 

"  You  shall  go,  my  dear  child." 

And  she  went ;  and  never  had  she  looked  more  beau- 
tiful. 

"  Doctor,  at  all  costs,  though  it  should  kill  me,  to-mor- 
row morning  I  must  be  at  the  Cabinet  Council," 

He  was  there,  and  carried  away  from  it  a  triumph  of 
eloquence  and  of  ambitious  diplomacy. 

Afterward — oh,  afterward,  if  you  please !  But  no  mat- 
ter !  To  their  last  day  Jenkins's  clients  went  about,  showed 
themselves,  cheated  the  devouring  egotism  of  the  crowd. 
They  died  on  their  feet,  as  became  men  and  women  of  the 
world. 

After  a  thousand  peregrinations  in  the  Chaussee  d'An- 
tin  and  the  Champs-Elysees,  after  having  visited  every 
millionaire  or  titled  personage  in  the  Faubourg  Saint  Ho- 
nore,  the  fashionable  doctor  arrived  at  the  corner  of  the 
Cours-la-Reine  and  the  Rue  Francois  F,  before  a  house  witR 
a  rounded  front,  which  occupied  the  angle*  on  the  quay,  and 
entered  an  apartment  on  the  ground  floor  which  resembled 
in  nowise  those  through  which  he  had  been  passing  since 
morning.  From  the  threshold,  tapestries  covering  the 
walls,  windows  of  old  stained  glass  with  strips  of  lead  cutting 
across  a  discrete  and  composite  light,  a  gigantic  saint  in 
carved  wood  which  fronted  a  Japanese  monster  with  pro- 
truding eyes  and  a  back  covered  with  delicate  scales  like 
tiles,  indicated  the  imaginative  and  curious  taste  of  an  artist. 
The  little  page  who  answered  the  door  held  in  leash  an 
Arab  greyhound  larger  than  himself. 

"  Mme.  Constance  is  at  mass,"  he  said,  "  and  Mademoi- 
selle is  in  the  studio  quite  alone.  We  have  been  at  work 
since  six  o'clock  this  morning,"  added  the  child  with  a 
rueful  yawn  which  the  dog  caught  on  the  wing,  making 
liim  open  wide  his  pink  mouth  with  its  sharp  teeth. 

Jenkins,  whom  we  have  seen  enter  with  so  much  self- 
possession  the  chamber  of  the  Minister  of  State,  trembled 

15 


The  Nabob 

a  little  as  he  raised  the  curtain  masking  the  door  of  the 
studio  which  had  been  left  open.  It  was  a  splendid  sculp- 
tor's studio,  the  front  of  which,  on  the  street  corner,  semi- 
circular in  shape,  gave  the  room  one  whole  wall  of  glass, 
with  pilasters  at  the  sides,  a  large,  well-lighted  bay,  opal- 
coloured  just  then  by  reason  of  the  fog.  More  ornate  than 
are  usually  such  work-rooms,  which  the  stains  of  the  plaster, 
the  boasting-tools,  the  clay,  the  puddles  of  water  generally 
cause  to  resemble  a  stone-mason's  shed,  this  one  added  a 
touch  of  coquetry  to  its  artistic  purpose.  Green  plants  in 
every  corner,  a  few  good  pictures  suspended  against  the 
bare  wall  and,  here  and  there,  resting  upon  oak  brackets, 
two  or  three  works  of  Sebastien  Ruys,  of  which  the  last,  ex- 
hibited after  his  death,  was  covered  with  a  piece  of  black 
gauze. 

The  mistress  of  the  house,  Felicia  Ruys,  the  daughter 
of  the  famous  sculptor  and  herself  already  known  by  two 
masterpieces,  the  bust  of  her  father  and  that  of  the  Due 
de  Mora,  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  studio,  occupied 
in  the  modelling  of  a  figure.  Wearing  a  tightly  fitting 
riding-habit  of  blue  cloth  with  long  folds,  a  fichu  of  China 
silk  twisted  about  her  neck  like  a  man's  tie,  her  black,  fine 
hair  caught  up  carelessly  above  the  antique  modelling  of 
her  small  head,  Felicia  was  at  work  with  an  extreme  ear- 
nestness which  added  to  her  beauty  the  concentration,  the 
intensity  which  are  given  to  the  features  by  an  attentive 
and  satisfied  expression.  But  that  changed  immediately 
upon  the  arrival  of  the  doctor. 

"  Ah,  it  is  you,"  said  she  brusquely,  as  though  awaked 
from  a  dream.  "The  bell  was  rung,  then?  I  did  not 
hear  it." 

And  in  the  ennui,  the  lassitude  that  suddenly  took  posses- 
sion of  that  adorable  face,  the  only  thing  that  remained 
expressive  and  brilliant  was  the  eyes,  eyes  in  which  the  fac- 
titious gleam  of  the  Jenkins  pills  was  heightened  by  a  con- 
stitutional wildness. 

Oh,  how  the  doctor's  voice  became  humble  and  con- 
descending as  he  answered  her : 

"  So  you  are  quite  absorbed  in  your  work,  my  dear 

i6 


Doctor  Jenkins's  Patients 

Felicia.  Is  it  something  new  that  you  are  at  work  on  there? 
It  seems  to  me  very  pretty." 

He  moved  towards  the  rough  and  still  formless  model 
out  of  which  there  was  beginning  to  issue  vaguely  a  group 
of  two  animals,  one  a  greyhound  which  was  scampering  at 
full  speed  with  a  rush  that  was  truly  extraordinary. 

"  The  idea  of  it  came  to  me  last  night.  I  began  to 
work  it  out  by  lamplight.  My  poor  Kadour,  he  sees  no 
fun  in  it,"  said  the  girl,  glancing  with  a  look  of  caress- 
ing kindness  at  the  greyhound  whose  paws  the  little  page 
was  endeavouring  to  place  apart  in  order  to  get  the  pose 
again. 

Jenkins  remarked  in  a  fatherly  way  that  she  did  wrong 
to  tire  herself  thus,  and  taking  her  wrist  with  ecclesiastical 
precautions : 

"  Come,  I  am  sure  you  are  feverish." 

At  the  contact  of  his  hand  with  her  own,  Felicia  made 
a  movement  almost  of  repulsion. 

"  No,  no,  leave  me  alone.  Your  pills  can  do  nothing 
for  me.  When  I  do  not  work  I  am  bored.  I  am  bored  to 
death,  to  extinction;  my  thoughts  are  the  colour  of  that 
water  which  flows  over  yonder,  brackish  and  heavy.  To 
be  commencing  life,  and  to  be  disgusted  with  it !  It  is  hard. 
I  am  reduced  to  the  point  of  envying  my  poor  Constance, 
who  passes  her  days  in  her  chair,  without  opening  her 
mouth,  but  smiling  to  herself  over  her  memories  of  the  past. 
I  have  not  even  that,  I,  happy  remembrances  to  muse  upon. 
I  have  only  work — work  !  " 

As  she  talked  she  went  on  modelling  furiously,  now 
with  the  boasting-tool,  now  with  her  fingers,  which  she 
wiped  from  time  to  time  on  a  little  sponge  placed  on  the 
wooden  platform  which  supported  the  group ;  so  that  her 
complaints,  her  melancholies,  inexplicable  in  the  mouth  of 
a  girl  of  twenty  which,  in  repose,  had  the  purity  of  a  Greek 
smile,  seemed  uttered  at  random  and  addressed  to  no  one 
in  particular. 

Jenkins,  however,  appeared  disturbed  by  them,  troubled, 
despite  the  evident  attention  which  he  gave  to  the  work  of 
the  artist,  or  rather  to  the  artist  herself,  to  the  triumphant 

^7 


The  Nabob 

grace  of  this  girl  whom  her  beauty  seemed  to  have  pre- 
destined to  the  study  of  the  plastic  arts. 

Embarrassed  by  the  admiring  gaze  which  she  felt  fixed 
upon  her,  Felicia  resumed : 

"  Apropos,  I  have  seen  him,  you  know,  your  Nabob. 
Some  one  pointed  him  out  to  me  last  Friday  at  the  opera." 

"  You  were  at  the  opera  on  Friday  ?  " 

"  Yes.    The  duke  had  sent  me  his  box," 

Jenkins  changed  colour. 

"  I  persuaded  Constance  to  go  with  me.  It  was  the  first 
time  for  twenty-five  years,  since  her  farewell  performance, 
that  she  had  been  inside  the  Opera-House.  It  made  a  great 
impression  on  her.  During  the  ballet,  especially,  she  trem- 
bled, she  beamed,  all  her  old  triumphs  sparkled  in  her  eyes. 
Happy  w^ho  has  emotions  like  that.  A  real  type,  that  Na- 
bob. You  will  have  to  bring  him  to  see  me.  He  has  a 
head  that  it  would  amuse  me  to  do." 

"  He  !  Why,  he  is  hideous !  You  cannot  have  looked  at 
him  carefully." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  had  a  perfect  view.  He  was  oppo- 
site us.  That  mask,  as  of  a  white  Ethiopian,  would  be  su- 
perb in  marble.  And  not  vulgar,  in  any  case.  Besides, 
since  he  is  so  ugly  as  that,  you  will  not  be  so  unhappy  as  you 
were  last  year  when  I  was  doing  Mora's  bust.  What  a  dis- 
agreeable face  you  had.  Jenkins,  in  those  days !  " 

"  For  ten  years  of  life,"  muttered  Jenkins  in  a  gloomy 
voice,  "  I  would  not  have  that  time  over  again.  But  you  it 
amuses  to  behold  sufifering." 

"  You  know  quite  well  that  nothing  amuses  me,"  said 
she,  shrugging  her  shoulders  with  a  supreme  impertinence. 

Then,  without  looking  at  him.  without  adding  another 
word,  she  plunged  into  one  of  those  dumb  activities  by 
which  true  artists  escape  from  themselves  and  from  every- 
thing that  surrounds  them. 

Jenkins  paced  a  few  steps  in  the  studio,  much  moved, 
with  avowals  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue  which  yet  dared  not 
put  themselves  into  words.  At  length,  feeling  himself  dis- 
missed, he  took  his  hat  and  walked  towards  the  door. 

"  So  it  is  understood.    I  must  bring  him  to  see  you." 

l8 


Doctor  Jenkins's  Patients 

"Who?" 

"  Why,  the  Nabob.  It  was  yon  who  this  very  mo- 
ment  " 

"  Ah,  yes,"  remarked  the  strange  person  whose  caprices 
were  short-lived.  "  Bring  him  if  you  Hke.  I  don't  care, 
otherwise." 

And  her  beautiful  dejected  voice,  in  which  something 
seemed  broken,  the  listlessness  of  her  whole  personality, 
said  distinctly  enough  that  it  was  true,  that  she  cared  really 
for  nothing  in  the  world. 

Jenkins  left  the  room,  extremely  troubled,  and  with  a 
gloomy  brow.  But,  the  moment  he  was  outside,  he  as- 
sumed once  more  his  laughing  and  cordial  expression,  being 
of  those  who,  in  the  streets,  go  masked.  The  morning  was 
advancing.  The  mist,  still  perceptible  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
Seine,  floated  now  only  in  shreds  and  gave  a  vaporous  un- 
substantiality  to  the  houses  on  the  quay,  to  the  river  steam- 
ers whose  paddles  remained  invisible,  to  the  distant  horizon 
in  which  the  dome  of  the  Invalides  hung  poised  like  a  gilded 
balloon  with  a  rope  that  darted  sunbeams.  A  diffused 
warmth,  the  movement  in  the  streets,  told  that  noon  was  not 
far  distant,  that  it  would  be  there  directly  with  the  striking 
of  all  the  bells. 

Before  going  on  to  the  Nabob's,  Jenkins  had,  however, 
one  other  visit  to  make.  But  he  appeared  to  find  it  a  great 
nuisance.  However,  since  he  had  made  the  promise !  And, 
resolutely : 

"  68  Rue  Saint-Ferdinand,  at  the  Ternes,"  he  said,  as  he 
sprang  into  his  carriage. 

The  address  required  to  be  repeated  twice  to  the  coach- 
man, Joey,  who  was  scandalized ;  the  very  horse  showed  a 
momentary  hesitation,  as  if  the  valuable  beast  and  the  im- 
peccably clad  servant  had  felt  revolt  at  the  idea  of  driving 
out  to  such  a  distant  suburb,  beyond  the  limited  but  so  bril- 
liant circle  wherein  their  master's  clients  were  scattered. 
The  carriage  arrived,  all  the  same,  without  accident,  at  the 
end  of  a  provincial-looking,  unfinished  street,  and  at  the 
last  of  its  buildings,  a  house  of  unfurnished  apartments  with 
five  stories,  which  the  street  seemed  to  have  despatched  for- 

19 


The  Nabob 

ward  as  a  reconnoitring  party  to  discover  whether  it  might 
continue  on  that  side,  isolated  as  it  stood  between  vaguely 
marked-out  sites  waiting  to  be  built  upon  or  heaped  with 
the  debris  of  houses  broken  down,  with  blocks  of  freestone, 
old  shutters  lying  amid  the  desolation,  mouldy  butchers' 
blocks  with  broken  hinges  hanging,  an  immense  ossuary  of 
a  whole  demolished  region  of  the  town. 

Innumerable  placards  were  stuck  above  the  door,  the 
latter  being  decorated  by  a  great  frame  of  photographs 
white  with  dust  before  which  Jenkins  paused  for  a  moment 
as  he  passed.  Had  the  famous  doctor  come  so  far,  then, 
simply  for  the  purpose  of  having  a  photograph  taken?  It 
might  have  been  thought  so,  judging  by  the  attention  with 
which  he  stayed  to  examine  this  display,  the  fifteen  or  twen- 
ty photographs  which  represented  the  same  family  in  dif- 
ferent poses  and  actions  and  with  varying  expressions ;  an 
old  gentleman,  with  chin  supported  by  a  high  white  neck- 
cloth, and  a  leathern  portfolio  under  his  arm,  surrounded  by 
a  bevy  of  young  girls  with  their  hair  in  plait  or  in  curls,  and 
with  modest  ornaments  on  their  black  frocks.  Sometimes 
the  old  gentleman  had  posed  with  but  two  of  his  daughters ; 
or  perhaps  one  of  those  young  and  pretty  profile  figures 
stood  out  alone,  the  elbow  resting  upon  a  broken  column, 
the  head  bowed  over  a  book  in  a  natural  and  easy  pose. 
But,  in  short,  it  was  always  the  same  air  with  variations,  and 
within  the  glass  frame  there  was  no  gentleman  save  the  old 
gentleman  with  the  white  neckcloth,  nor  other  feminine  fig- 
ures than  those  of  his  numerous  daughters. 

"  Studios  upstairs,  on  the  fifth  floor,"  said  a  line  above 
the  frame.  Jenkins  sighed,  measured  with  his  eye  the  dis- 
tance that  separated  the  ground  from  the  little  balcony  up 
there  in  the  clouds,  then  he  decided  to  enter.  In  the  corridor 
he  passed  a  white  neckcloth  and  a  majestic  leathern  portfolio, 
evidently  the  old  gentleman  of  the  photographic  exhibition. 
Questioned,  this  individual  replied  that  M.  Maranne  did  in- 
deed live  on  the  fifth  floor.  "  But,"  he  added,  with  an 
engaging  smile,  ''  the  stories  are  not  lofty."  Upon  this  en- 
couragement the  Irishman  began  to  ascend  a  narrow  and 
quite  new  staircase  with  landings  no  larger  than  a  step, 

20 


Doctor  Jenkins's  Patients 

only  one  door  on  each  floor,  and  badly  lighted  windows 
through  which  could  be  seen  a  gloomy,  ill-paved  court-yard 
and  other  cage-like  staircases,  all  empty  ;  one  of  those  fright- 
ful modern  houses,  built  by  the  dozen  by  penniless  specula- 
tors, and  having  as  their  worst  disadvantage  thin  partition 
walls  which  oblige  all  the  inhabitants  to  live  in  a  phalan- 
sterian  community. 

At  this  particular  time  the  inconvenience  w^as  not  great, 
the  fourth  and  fifth  floors  alone  happening  to  be  occupied, 
as  though  the  tenants  had  dropped  into  them  from  the  sky. 

On  the  fourth  floor,  behind  a  door  with  a  copper  plate 
bearing  the  announcement  "  M.  Joyeuse,  Expert  in  Book- 
keeping," the  doctor  heard  a  sound  of  fresh  laughter,  of 
young  people's  chatter,  and  of  romping  steps,  which  accom- 
panied him  to  the  floor  above,  to  the  photographic  estab- 
lishment. 

These  little  businesses  perched  away  in  corners  with  the 
air  of  having  no  communication  with  any  outside  world  are 
one  of  the  surprises  of  Paris.  One  asks  one's  self  how  the 
people  live  who  go  into  these  trades,  what  fastidious  Provi- 
dence can,  for  example,  send  clients  to  a  photographer 
lodged  on  a  fifth  floor  in  a  nondescript  region,  well  beyond 
the  Rue  Saint-Ferdinand,  or  books  to  keep  to  the  account- 
ant below.  Jenkins,  as  he  made  this  reflection,  smiled  in 
pity,  then  went  straight  in  as  he  was  invited  by  the  follow- 
ing inscription,  "  Enter  without  knocking."  Alas !  the  per- 
mission was  scarcely  abused.  A  tall  young  man  wearing 
spectacles,  and  writing  at  a  small  table,  with  his  legs 
wrapped  in  a  travelling-rug,  rose  precipitately  to  greet  the 
visitor  whom  his  short  sight  had  prevented  him  from  recog- 
nising. 

"  Good-morning,  Andre,"  said  the  doctor,  stretching 
out  his  loyal  hand. 

"  M.  Jenkins !  " 

"  You  see,  I  am  good-natured  as  I  have  always  been. 
Your  conduct  towards  us,  your  obstinacy  in  persisting  in 
living  far  away  from  your  parents,  imposed  a  great  reserve 
on  me,  for  my  own  dignity's  sake ;  but  your  mother  has  wept. 
And  here  I  am." 

21 


The  Nabob 

While  he  spoke,  he  examined  the  poor  little  studio,  with 
its  bare  walls,  its  scanty  furniture,  the  brand-new  photo- 
graphic apparatus,  the  little  Prussian  fireplace,  new  also  and 
never  yet  used  for  a  fire,  all  forced  into  painfully  clear  evi- 
dence beneath  the  direct  light  falling  from  the  glass  roof. 
The  drawn  face,  the  scanty  beard  of  the  young  man,  to 
whom  the  bright  colour  of  his  eyes,  the  narrow  height  of 
his  forehead,  his  long  and  fair  hair  thrown  backward  gave  the 
air  of  a  visionary,  everything  was  accentuated  in  the  crude 
light ;  and  also  the  resolute  will  in  that  clear  glance  which 
settled  upon  Jenkins  coldly,  and  in  advance  to  all  his  reason- 
ings, to  all  his  protestations,  opposed  an  invincible  resist- 
ance. 

But  the  good  Jenkins  feigned  not  to  perceive  anything 
of  this. 

**  You  know,  my  dear  Andre,  since  the  day  when  I  mar- 
ried your  mother  I  have  regarded  you  as  my  son.  I  looked 
forward  to  leaving  you  my  practice  and  my  patients,  to  put- 
ting your  foot  in  a  golden  stirrup,  happy  to  see  you  following 
a  career  consecrated  to  the  welfare  of  humanity.  All  at 
once,  without  giving  any  reason,  without  taking  into  any 
consideration  the  effect  which  such  a  rupture  might  well 
have  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  you  have  separated  yourself 
from  us,  you  have  abandoned  your  studies,  renounced  your 
future,  in  order  to  launch  out  into  I  know  not  what  eccen- 
tric life,  engaging  in  a  ridiculous  trade,  the  refuge  and  the 
excuse  of  all  unclassed  people." 

"  I  follow  this  occupation  in  order  to  earn  a  living.  It 
is  bread  and  butter  in  the  meantime." 

"  In  what  meantime  ?  While  you  are  waiting  for  lit- 
erary glory  ?  " 

He  glanced  disdainfully  at  the  scribbling  scattered  over 
the  table. 

"  All  that  is  not  serious,  you  know,  and  here  is  what  I 
am  come  to  tell  you.  An  opportunity  presents  itself  to 
you,  a  double-swing  door  opening  into  the  future.  The 
Bethlehem  Society  is  founded.  The  most  splendid  of  my 
philanthropic  dreams  has  taken  body.  We  have  just  pur- 
chased a  superb  villa  at  Nanterre  for  the  housing  of  our 

22 


Doctor  Jenkins's  Patients 

first  establishment.  It  is  the  care,  the  management  of  this 
house  that  I  have  thought  of  intrusting  to  you  as  to  an 
alter  ego.  A  princely  dwelling,  the  salary  of  the  commander 
of  a  division,  and  the  satisfaction  of  a  service  rendered  to 
the  great  human  family.  Say  one  word,  and  I  take  you  to 
see  the  Nabob,  the  great-hearted  man  who  defrays  the  ex- 
pense of  our  undertaking.     Do  you  accept?" 

"  No,"  said  the  other  so  curtly  that  Jenkins  was  some- 
what put  out  of  countenance. 

"  Just  so.  I  was  prepared  for  this  refusal  when  I  came 
here.  But  I  am  come  nevertheless.  I  have  taken  for  motto, 
*  To  do  good  without  hope,'  and  I  remain  faithful  to  my 
motto.  So  then,  it  is  understood  you  prefer  to  the  hon- 
ourable, w^orthy,  and  profitable  existence  which  I  have  just 
proposed  to  you,  a  life  of  hazard  without  aim  and  without 
dignity  ?  " 

Andre  answered  nothing,  but  his  silence  spoke  for  him. 

"  Take  care.  You  know  what  that  decision  will  involve, 
a  definitive  estrangement,  but  you  have  always  wanted  that. 
I  need  not  tell  you,"  continued  Jenkins,  "  that  to  break 
with  me  is  to  break  off  relations  also  with  your  mother. 
She  and  I  are  one." 

The  young  man  turned  pale,  hesitated  a  moment,  then 
said  with  effort : 

"  If  it  please  my  mother  to  come  to  see  me  here,  I  shall 
be  delighted,  certainly.  But  my  determination  to  quit  your 
house,  to  have  no  longer  anything  in  common  with  you,  is 
irrevocable." 

"  And  will  you  at  least  say  why  ?  " 

He  made  a  negative  sign ;  he  would  not  say. 

For  once  the  Irishman  felt  a  genuine  impulse  of  anger. 
His  whole  face  assumed  a  cunning,  savage  expression 
which  would  have  very  much  astonished  those  that  only 
knew  the  good  and  loyal  Jenkins ;  but  he  took  good  care 
not  to  push  further  an  explanation  which  he  feared  perhaps 
as  much  as  he  desired  it. 

"  Adieu,"  said  he,  half  turning  his  head  on  the  threshold. 
"  And  never  apply  to  us." 

"  Never,"  replied  his  stepson  in  a  firm  voice. 

23 


The  Nabob 

This  time,  when  the  doctor  had  said  to  Joey,  "  Place  Ven- 
dome,"  the  horse,  as  though  he  had  understood  that  they 
were  going  to  the  Nabob's,  gave  a  proud  shake  to  his  ght- 
tering  curb-chains,  and  the  brougham  set  off  at  full  speed, 
transforming  each  axle  of  its  wheels  into  sunshine.  "  To 
come  so  far  to  get  a  reception  like  that!  A  celebrity  of 
the  time  to  be  treated  thus  by  that  Bohemian !  One  may 
try  indeed  to  do  good !  "  Jenkins  gave  vent  to  his  anger  in 
a  long  monologue  of  this  character,  then  suddenly  rousing 
himself,  exclaimed,  "  Ah,  bah !  "  and  what  anxiety  there  was 
remaining  on  his  brow  quickly  vanished  on  the  pavement  of 
the  Place  Vendome.  Noon  was  striking  everywhere  in  the 
sunshine.  Issued  forth  from  behind  its  curtain  of  mist, 
luxurious  Paris,  awake  and  on  its  feet,  was  commencing 
its  whirling  day.  The  shop-windows  of  the  Rue  de  la  Paix 
shone  brightly.  The  mansions  of  the  square  seemed  to  be 
ranging  themselves  haughtily  for  the  receptions  of  the  after- 
noon ;  and,  right  at  the  end  of  the  Rue  Castiglione  with  its 
white  arcades,  the  Tuileries,  beneath  a  fine  burst  of  winter 
sunshine,  raised  shivering  statues,  pink  with  cold,  amid  the 
stripped  trees. 


24 


II 

A   LUNCHEON   IN   THE   PLACE  VENDOME 

There  were  scarcely  more  than  a  score  of  persons  that 
morning  in  the  Nabob's  dining-room,  a  dining-room  in 
carved  oak,  supplied  the  previous  evening  as  it  were  by 
some  great  upholsterer,  who  at  the  same  stroke  had  fur- 
nished these  suites  of  four  drawing-rooms  of  which  you 
caught  sight  through  an  open  doorway,  the  hangings  on  the 
ceiling,  the  objects  of  art,  the  chandeliers,  even  the  very 
plate  on  the  sideboards  and  the  servants  who  were  in  at- 
tendance. It  was  obviously  the  kind  of  interior  improvised 
the  moment  he  was  out  of  the  railway-train  by  a  gigantic 
parvenu  in  haste  to  enjoy.  Although  around  the  table  there 
was  no  trace  of  any  feminine  presence,  no  bright  frock  to 
enliven  it,  its  aspect  was  yet  not  monotonous,  thanks  to  the 
dissimilarity,  the  oddness  of  the  guests,  people  belonging 
to  every  section  of  society,  specimens  of  humanity  detached 
from  all  races,  in  France,  in  Europe,  in  the  entire  globe, 
from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  the  social  ladder.  To  begin 
with,  the  master  of  the  house — a  kind  of  giant,  tanned, 
burned  by  the  sun,  safTron-coloured,  with  head  in  his  shoul- 
ders. His  nose,  which  was  short  and  lost  in  the  puffiness 
of  his  face,  his  woolly  hair  massed  like  a  cap  of  astrakhan 
above  a  low  and  obstinate  forehead,  and  his  bristly  eyebrows 
with  eyes  like  those  of  an  ambushed  chapard  gave  him  the 
ferocious  aspect  of  a  Kalmuck,  of  some  frontier  savage  liv- 
ing by  war  and  rapine.  Fortunately  the  lower  part  of  the 
face,  the  fleshy  and  strong  lip  which  was  lightened  now  and 
then  by  a  smile  adorable  in  its  kindness,  quite  redeemed, 
by  an  expression  like  that  of  a  St.  Vincent  de  Paul,  this 
fierce  ugliness,  this  physiognomy  so  original  that  it  was 
no  longer  vulgar.     An   inferior  extraction,   however,   be- 

25 


The  Nabob 

trayed  itself  yet  again  by  the  voice,  the  voice  of  a  Rhone 
waterman,  raucous  and  thick,  in  which  the  southern  accent 
became  rather  uncouth  than  hard,  and  by  two  broad  and 
short  hands,  hairy  at  the  back,  square  and  nailless  fingers 
which,  laid  on  the  whiteness  of  the  table-cloth,  spoke  of  their 
past  with  an  embarrassing  eloquence.  Opposite  him,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  table  at  which  he  was  one  of  the  habitual 
guests,  was  seated  the  Marquis  de  Monpavon,  but  a  Mon- 
pavon  presenting  no  resemblance  to  the  painted  spectre  of 
whom  we  had  a  glimpse  in  the  last  chapter.  He  was  now 
a  haughty  man  of  no  particular  age,  fine  majestic  nose,  a 
lordly  bearing,  displaying  a  large  shirt-front  of  immaculate 
linen  crackling  beneath  the  continual  efifort  of  the  chest  to 
throw  itself  forward,  and  bulging  itself  out  each  time  with  a 
noise  like  that  made  by  a  white  turkey  when  it  struts  in 
anger,  or  by  a  peacock  when  he  spreads  his  tail.  His  name 
of  Monpavon  suited  him  well. 

Of  great  family  and  of  a  wealthy  stock,  but  ruined  by 
gambling  and  speculation,  the  friendship  of  the  Due  de 
Mora  had  secured  him  an  appointment  as  receiver-gen- 
eral in  the  first  class.  Unfortunately  his  health  had  not 
permitted  him  to  retain  this  handsome  position — well-in- 
formed people  said  his  health  had  nothing  to  do  with  it — 
and  for  the  last  year  he  had  been  living  in  Paris,  awaiting 
his  restoration  to  health,  according  to  his  own  account  of 
the  matter,  before  resuming  his  post.  The  same  people 
were  confident  that  he  would  never  regain  it,  and  that  even 
were  it  not  for  certain  exalted  influences —  However, 
he  was  the  important  personage  of  the  luncheon ;  that  was 
clear  from  the  manner  in  which  the  servants  waited  upon 
him,  and  the  Nabob  consulted  him,  calling  him  "  Mon- 
sieur le  Marquis,"  as  at  the  Comedie-Frangaise,  less  almost 
out  of  deference  than  from  pride,  by  reason  of  the  honour 
which  it  reflected  upon  himself.  Full  of  disdain  for  the 
people  around  him,  M.  le  Marquis  spoke  little,  in  a  very 
high  voice,  and  as  though  he  were  stooping  towards  those 
whom  he  was  honouring  with  his  conversation.  From  time 
to  time  he  would  throw  to  the  Nabob  across  the  table  a  few 
words  enigmatical  for  all. 

26 


A  Luncheon  in  the  Place  Vendome 

"  I  saw  the  duke  yesterday.  He  Avas  talking  a  great 
deal  about  you  in  connection  with  that  matter.  You 
know,  that  thing — that  business.  What  was  the  name 
of  it?" 

"  You  really  mean  it  ?  He  spoke  of  me  to  you  ?  "  And 
the  good  Nabob,  quite  proud,  would  look  around  him 
with  movements  of  the  head  that  were  supremely  laugh- 
able, or  perhaps  assume  the  contemplative  air  of  a  devotee 
who  should  hear  the  name  of  Our  Lord  pronounced. 

"  His  excellency  would  have  pleasure  in  seeing  you 
take  up  the — ps,  ps,  ps — the  thing." 

"  He  told  you  so  ?  " 

"  Ask  the  governor  if  he  did  not — heard  it  like  my- 
self." 

The  person  who  was  called  the  governor — Paganetti,  to 
give  him  his  real  name — was  a  little,  expressive  man,  con- 
stantly gesticulating  and  fatiguing  to  behold,  so  many  were 
the  different  expressions  which  his  face  would  assume 
in  the  course  of  a  single  minute.  He  was  managing  direct- 
or of  the  Territorial  Bank  of  Corsica,  a  vast  financial  en- 
terprise, and  had  now  come  to  the  house  for  the  first  time, 
introduced  by  Monpavon ;  he  occupied  accordingly  a  place 
of  honour.  On  the  other  side  of  the  Nabob  was  an  old 
gentleman,  buttoned  up  to  the  chin  in  a  frock-coat  having 
a  straight  collar  without  lapels,  like  an  Oriental  tunic,  his 
face  slashed  by  a  thousand  little  bloodshot  veins  and  wear- 
ing a  white  moustache  of  military  cut.  It  was  Brahim  Bey, 
the  most  valiant  colonel  of  the  Regency  of  Tunis,  aide-de- 
camp of  the  former  Bey  who  had  made  the  fortune  of 
Jansoulet.  The  glorious  exploits  of  this  warrior  showed 
themselves  written  in  wrinkles,  in  blemishes  wrought  by 
debauchery  upon  the  nerveless  under-lip  that  hung  as  it 
were  relaxed,  and  upon  his  eyes  without  lashes,  infiamed  and 
red.  It  was  a  head  such  as  one  may  see  in  the  dock  at  cer- 
tain criminal  trials  that  are  held  with  closed  doors.  The 
other  guests  were  seated  pell-mell,  just  as  they  had  hap- 
pened to  arrive  or  to  find  themselves,  for  the  house  was  open 
to  everybody,  and  the  table  was  laid  every  morning  for  thirty 
persons. 

27  Vol.  18— C 


The  Nabob 

There  was  present  the  manager  of  the  theatre  financed 
by  the  Nabob,  Cardailhac,  renowned  for  his  wit  ahiiost  as 
much  as  for  his  insolvencies,  a  marvellous  carver  who, 
while  he  was  engaged  in  severing  the  limbs  of  a  partridge, 
would  prepare  one  of  his  witticisms  and  deposit  it  with  a 
wing  upon  the  plate  which  was  presented  to  him.  He 
worked  up  his  witticisms  instead  of  improvising  them,  and 
the  new  fashion  of  serving  meats,  a  la  Russc  and  carved  be- 
forehand, had  been  fatal  to  him  by  its  removal  of  all  ex- 
cuse for  a  preparatory  silence.  Consequently  it  was  the  gen- 
eral remark  that  his  vogue  was  on  the  decline.  Parisian, 
moreover,  a  dandy  to  the  finger  tips,  and,  as  he  himself  was 
wont  to  boast,  "  with  not  one  particle  of  superstition  in  his 
whole  body,"  a  characteristic  which  permitted  him  to  give 
very  piquant  details  concerning  the  ladies  of  his  theatre 
to  Brahim  Bey — who  listened  to  him  as  one  turns  over  the 
pages  of  a  naughty  book — and  to  talk  theology  to  the 
young  priest  who  was  his  nearest  neighbour,  a  curate  of 
some  little  southern  village,  lean  and  with  a  complexion 
sunburnt  till  it  matched  the  cloth  of  his  cassock  in  colour, 
with  fiery  patches  above  the  cheek-bones,  and  the  pointed, 
forward-pushing  nose  of  the  ambitious  man,  who  would 
remark  to  Cardailhac  very  loudly,  in  a  tone  of  protection 
and  sacerdotal  authority : 

"  We  are  quite  pleased  with  M.  Guizot.  He  is  doing 
very  well — very  well.    It  is  a  conquest  for  the  Church." 

Seated  next  this  pontiff,  with  a  black  neck-band,  old 
Schwalbach,  the  famous  picture-dealer,  displayed  his  proph- 
et's beard,  tawny  in  places  like  a  dirty  fleece,  his  three 
overcoats  tinged  by  mildew,  all  that  loose  and  negligent 
attire  for  which  he  was  excused  in  the  name  of  art,  and 
because,  in  a  time  when  the  mania  for  picture  galleries  had 
already  begun  to  cause  millions  to  change  hands,  it  was  the 
proper  thing  to  entertain  the  man  who  was  the  best  placed 
for  the  conduct  of  these  absurdly  vain  transactions.  Schwal- 
bach did  not  speak,  contenting  himself  with  gazing  around 
him  through  his  enormous  monocle,  shaped  like  a  hand 
magnifying-glass,  and  with  smiling  in  his  beard  over  the 
singular  neighbours  made  by  this  unique  assembly.    Thus 

28 


A  Luncheon  in  the  Place  Vendome 

it  happened  that  M.  de  Monpavon  had  quite  close  to  him 
— and  it  was  a  sight  to  watch  how  the  disdainful  curve  of 
his  nose  was  accentuated  at  each  glance  in  that  direction— 
the  singer  Garrigou,  a  fellow-countryman  of  Jansoulet,  a 
distinguished  ventriloquist  who  sang  Figaro  in  the  dialect 
of  the  south,  and  had  no  equal  in  his  imitations  of  animals. 
Just  beyond,  Cabassu,  another  compatriot,  a  little  short 
and  dumpy  man,  with  the  neck  of  a  bull  and  the  biceps  of 
a  statue  by  Michel  Angelo,  who  suggested  at  once  a  Mar- 
seilles hairdresser  and  the  strong  man  at  a  fair,  a  masseur, 
pedicure,  manicure,  and  something  of  a  dentist,  sat  with 
elbows  on  the  table  with  the  coolness  of  a  charlatan  whom 
one  receives  in  the  morning  and  w^ho  knows  the  little  in- 
firmities, the  intimate  distresses  of  the  abode  in  which  he 
chances  to  find  himself.  M.  Bompain  completed  this  array 
of  subordinates,  all  alike  in  one  respect  at  any  rate,  Bom- 
pain, the  secretary,  the  steward,  the  confidential  agent, 
through  whose  hands  the  entire  business  of  the  house  passed ; 
and  it  sufficed  to  observe  that  solemnly  stupid  attitude,  that 
indefinite  manner,  the  Turkish  fez  placed  awkwardly  on  a 
head  suggestive  of  a  village  school-master,  in  order  to 
understand  to  what  manner  of  people  interests  like  those 
of  the  Nabob  had  been  abandoned. 

Finally,  to  fill  the  gaps  among  these  figures  I  have 
sketched,  the  Turkish  crowd — Tunisians,  Moors,  Egyp- 
tians, Levantines ;  and,  mingled  with  this  exotic  element,  a 
whole  variegated  Parisian  Bohemia  of  ruined  noblemen, 
doubtful  traders,  penniless  journalists,  inventors  of  strange 
products,  people  arrived  from  the  south  without  a  farthing, 
all  the  lost  ships  needing  revictualling,  or  flocks  of  birds 
w^andering  aimlessly  in  the  night,  which  were  drawn  by  this 
great  fortune  as  by  the  light  of  a  beacon.  The  Nabob 
admitted  this  miscellaneous  collection  of  individuals  to  his 
table  out  of  kindness,  out  of  generosity,  out  of  weakness, 
by  reason  of  his  easy-going  manners,  joined  to  an  absolute 
ignorance  and  a  survival  of  that  loneliness  of  the  exile,  of 
that  need  for  expansion  which,  down  yonder  in  Tunis,  in 
his  splendid  palace  of  the  Bardo,  had  caused  him  to  welcome 
everybody  who  hailed  from  France,  from  the  small  trades- 

29 


The  Nabob 

man  exporting  Parisian  wares  to  the  famous  pianist  on  tour 
and  the  consul-general  himself. 

As  one  listened  to  those  various  accents,  those  foreign 
intonations,  gruff  or  faltering,  as  one  gazed  upon  those 
widely  different  physiognomies,  some  violent,  barbarous, 
vulgar,  others  hyper-civilized,  worn,  suggestive  only  of  the 
Boulevard  and  as  it  were  flaccid,  one  noted  that  the  same 
diversity  was  evident  also  among  the  servants  who,  some 
apparently  lads  just  out  of  an  office,  insolent  in  manner,  with 
heads  of  hair  like  a  dentist's  or  a  bath-attendant's,  busied 
themselves  among  Ethiopians  standing  motionless  and 
shining  like  candelabra  of  black  marble,  and  it  was  im- 
possible to  say  exactly  where  one  was ;  in  any  case,  you 
would  never  have  imagined  yourself  to  be  in  the  Place 
Vendome,  right  in  the  beating  Heart  and  very  centre  of  the 
life  of  our  modern  Paris.  Upon  the  table  there  was  a 
like  importation  of  exotic  dishes,  saffron  or  anchovy 
sauces,  spices  mixed  up  with  Turkish  delicacies,  chickens 
with  fried  almonds,  and  all  this,  taken  together  with  the 
banality  of  the  interior,  the  gilding  of  the  panels,  the  shrill 
ringing  of  the  new  bells,  gave  the  impression  of  a  table 
d'hote  in  some  big  hotel  in  Smyrna  or  Calcutta,  or  of  a 
luxurious  dining-saloon  on  board  a  transatlantic  liner,  the 
"  Pereire  "  or  the  "  Sinai." 

It  might  seem  that  this  diversity  among  the  guests — 
I  was  about  to  say  among  the  passengers — ought  to  have 
caused  the  meal  to  be  animated  and  noisy.  Far  otherwise. 
They  all  ate  nervously,  watching  each  other  out  of  eye- 
corners,  and  even  those  most  accustomed  to  society,  those 
who  appeared  the  most  at  their  ease,  had  in  their  glance 
the  wandering  look  and  the  distraction  of  a  fixed  idea,  a 
feverish  anxiety  which  caused  them  to  speak  without  rele- 
vance and  to  listen  without  understanding  a  word  of  what 
was  being  said  to  them. 

Suddenly  the  door  of  the  dining-room  opened. 

"  Ah,  here  comes  Jenkins !  "  exclaimed  the  Nabob  de- 
lightedly. "  Welcome,  welcome,  doctor.  How  are  you, 
my  friend  ?  " 

A  smile  to  those  around,  a  hearty  shake  of  his  host's 

30 


A   Luncheon  in  the  Place  Vendome 

hand,  and  Jenkins  sat  down  opposite  him,  next  to  Mon- 
pavon,  before  a  place  at  the  table  which  a  servant  had  just 
prepared  in  all  haste  and  without  having  received  any  or- 
der, exactly  as  at  a  table  d'hote.  Among  those  preoccupied 
and  feverish  faces,  this  one  at  any  rate  stood  out  in  con- 
trast by  its  good  humour,  its  cheerfulness,  and  that  loqua- 
cious and  flattering  benevolence  which  makes  the  Irish  in  a 
way  the  Gascons  of  England.  And  what  a  splendid  appe- 
tite !  With  what  heartiness,  what  ease  of  conscience  he 
used  his  white  teeth  as  he  talked ! 

"Well,  Jansoulet,  you  have  read  it?" 

"What?" 

"  How,  then !  you  do  not  know  ?  You  have  not  read 
what  the  Messenger  says  about  you  this  morning?" 

Beneath  the  dark  tan  of  his  cheeks  the  Nabob  blushed 
like  a  child,  and,  his  eyes  shining  with  pleasure : 

"  Is  it  possible — the  Messenger  has  spoken  of  me?" 

"  Through  two  columns.  How  is  it  that  Moessard  has 
not  shown  it  to  you  ? " 

"  Oh,"  put  in  Moessard  modestly,  ''  it  was  not  worth 
the  trouble." 

He  was  a  little  journalist,  with  a  fair  complexion  and 
smart  in  his  dress,  sufficiently  good-looking,  but  with  a 
face  w'hich  presented  that  worn  appearance  noticeable  as 
the  special  mark  of  waiters  in  night-restaurants,  actors,  and 
light  women,  and  produced  by  conventional  grimacing 
and  the  wan  reflection  of  gaslight.  He  was  reputed  to  be 
the  paid  lover  of  an  exiled  and  profligate  queen.  The  ru- 
mour w-as  whispered  around  him,  and,  in  his  own  world, 
secured  him  an  envied  and  despicable  position. 

Jansoulet  insisted  on  reading  the  article,  impatient  to 
know  what  had  been  said  of  him.  Unfortunately  Jenkins 
had  left  his  copy  at  the  duke's. 

"  Let  some  one  go  fetch  me  a  Messenger  quickly,"  said 
the  Nabob  to  the  servant  behind  him. 

Moessard  intervened. 

"  It  is  needless.  I  must  have  the  thing  on  me  some- 
where." 

And  with  the  absence  of  ceremony  of  the  tavern  ha- 

31 


The  Nabob 

bitue,  of  the  reporter  who  scribbles  his  paragraph  with  his 
glass  beside  him,  the  journalist  drew  out  a  pocket-book 
crammed  full  of  notes,  stamped  papers,  newspaper  cuttings, 
notes  written  on  glazed  paper  with  crests,  which  he  pro- 
ceeded to  litter  over  the  table,  pushing  away  his  plate  in 
order  to  search  for  the  proof  of  his  article. 

"  There  you  are."  He  passed  it  over  to  Jansoulet ;  but 
Jenkins  besought  him : 

"  No,  no ;  read  it  aloud." 

The  company  having  echoed  the  request  in  chorus, 
Moessard  took  back  his  proof  and  commenced  to  read  in  a 
loud  voice,  "  The  Bethlehem  Society  and  Mr.  Bernard 
Jansoulet,"  a  long  dithyramb  in  favour  of  artificial  lacta- 
tion, written  from  notes  made  by  Jenkins,  which  were 
recognisable  through  certain  fine  phrases  much  affected  by 
the  Irishman,  such  as  "  the  long  martyrology  of  child- 
hood," "  the  sordid  trafific  in  the  breast,"  "  the  benefi- 
cent nanny-goat  as  foster-mother,"  and  finishing,  after  a 
pompous  description  of  the  splendid  establishment  at  Nan- 
terre,  with  a  eulogy  of  Jenkins  and  a  glorification  of  Jan- 
soulet:  "O  Bernard  Jansoulet,  benefactor  of  childhood!" 
It  was  a  sight  to  see  the  vexed,  scandalized  faces  of  the 
guests.  What  an  intriguer  was  this  Moessard !  What 
an  impudent  piece  of  sycophantry !  And  the  same  envious, 
disdainful  smile  quivered  on  every  mouth.  And  the  deuce 
of  it  was  that  a  man  had  to  applaud,  to  appear  charmed, 
the  master  of  the  house  not  being  weary  as  yet  of  incense, 
and  taking  everything  very  seriously,  both  the  article  and 
the  applause  which  it  provoked.  His  big  face  shone  dur- 
ing the  reading.  Often,  down  yonder,  far  away,  had  he 
dreamed  a  dream  of  having  his  praises  sung  like  this  in 
the  newspapers  of  Paris,  of  being  somebody  in  that  so- 
ciety, the  first  among  all,  on  which  the  entire  world  has  its 
eyes  fixed  as  on  the  bearer  of  a  torch.  Now,  that  dream 
was  becoming  a  reality.  He  gazed  upon  all  these  people 
seated  at  his  board,  the  sumptuous  dessert,  this  panelled 
dining-room  as  high,  certainly,  as  the  church  of  his  native 
village;  he  listened  to  the  dull  murmur  of  Paris  rolling 
along  in  its  carriages  and  treading  the  pavements  beneath 

32 


A  Luncheon  in  the  Place  Vendome 

his  windows,  with  the  intimate  conviction  that  he  was  about 
to  become  an  important  piece  in  "that  active  and  compli- 
cated machine.  And  then,  through  the  atmosphere  of 
physical  well-being  produced  by  the  meal,  between  the 
lines  of  that  triumphant  vindication,  by  an  effect  of  con- 
trast, he  beheld  unfold  itself  his  own  existence,  his  youth, 
adventurous  as  it  was  sad,  the  days  without  bread,  the 
nights  without  shelter.  Then  suddenly,  the  reading  having 
come  to  an  end,  his  joy  overflowing  in  one  of  those  south- 
ern effusions  which  force  thought  into  speech,  he  cried, 
beaming  upon  his  guests  wuth  that  frank  and  thick-lipped 
smile  of  his : 

"  Ah,  my  friends,  my  dear  friends,  if  you  could  know 
how  happy  I  am !    What  pride  I  feel !  " 

Scarce  six  weeks  had  passed  since  he  had  landed  in 
France.  Excepting  two  or  three  compatriots,  those  whom 
he  thus  addressed  as  his  friends  were  but  the  acquaintances 
of  a  day,  and  that  through  his  having  lent  them  money. 
This  sudden  expansion,  therefore,  appeared  sufificiently  ex- 
traordinary ;  but  Jansoulet,  too  much  under  the  sway  of 
emotion  to  notice  anything,  continued : 

"  After  what  I  have  just  heard,  when  I  behold  myself 
here  in  this  great  Paris,  surrounded  by  all  its  wealth  of 
illustrious  names,  of  distinguished  intellects,  and  then  call 
up  the  remembrance  of  my  father's  booth !  For  I  was  born 
in  a  booth.  My  father  used  to  sell  old  nails  at  the  corner 
of  a  boundary  stone  in  the  Bourg-Saint-Andeol.  If  we  had 
bread  in  the  house  every  day  and  stew  every  Sunday  it 
was  the  most  we  had  to  expect.  Ask  Cabassu  whether  it 
was  not  so.  He  knew  me  in  those  days.  He  can  tell  you 
whether  I  am  not  speaking  the  truth.  Oh,  yes,  I  have 
known  what  poverty  is."  He  threw  back  his  head  with 
an  impulse  of  pride  as  he  savoured  the  odour  of  truffles 
diffused  through  the  suffocating  atmosphere.  "  I  have 
known  it,  and  the  real  thing  too,  and  for  a  long  time.  I 
have  been  cold.  I  have  known  hunger — genuine  hunger, 
remember — the  hunger  that  intoxicates,  that  wrings  the 
stomach,  sets  circles  dancing  in  your  head,  deprives  you 
of  sight  as  if  the  inside  of  your  eyes  was  being  gouged  out 


The  Nabob 

with  an  oyster-knife.  I  have  passed  days  in  bed  for  want 
of  an  overcoat  to  go  out  in ;  fortunate  at  that  when  I  had 
a  bed,  which  was  not  always.  I  have  sought  my  bread 
from  every  trade,  and  that  bread  cost  me  such  bitter  toil, 
it  was  so  black,  so  tough,  that  in  my  mouth  I  keep  still  the 
flavour  of  its  acrid  and  mouldy  taste.  And  thus  until  I 
was  thirty.  Yes,  my  friends,  at  thirty  years  of  age — and 
I  am  not  yet  fifty — I  was  still  a  beggar,  without  a  sou, 
without  a  future,  with  the  remorseful  thought  of  the  poor 
old  mother,  become  a  widow,  who  was  half-dying  of  hun- 
ger away  yonder  in  her  booth,  and  to  whom  I  had  nothing 
to  give." 

Around  this  Amphitryon  recounting  the  story  of  his 
evil  days  the  faces  of  his  hearers  expressed  curiosity. 
Some  appeared  shocked,  Monpavon  especially.  For  him, 
this  exposure  of  rags  was  in  execrable  taste,  an  absolute 
breach  of  good  manners.  Cardailhac,  sceptical  and  dainty, 
an  enemy  to  scenes  of  emotion,  with  face  set  as  if  it  were 
hypnotized,  sliced  a  fruit  on  the  end  of  his  fork  into  wafers 
as  thin  as  cigarette  papers. 

The  governor  exhibited,  on  the  contrary,  a  fllatly  admir- 
ing demeanour,  uttering  exclamations  of  amazement  and 
compassion;  while,  not  far  away,  in  singular  contrast. 
Brahmin  Bey,  the  thunderbolt  of  war,  upon  whom  this 
reading  followed  by  a  lecture  after  a  heavy  meal  had  had 
the  effect  of  inducing  a  restorative  slumber,  slept  with  his 
mouth  open  beneath  his  white  moustache,  his  face  congest- 
ed by  his  collar,  which  had  slipped  up.  But  the  most  gen- 
eral expression  was  one  of  indifference  and  boredom. 
What  could  it  matter  to  them,  I  ask  you ;  what  had  they 
to  do  with  Jansoulet's  childhood  in  the  Bourg-Saint-An- 
deol,  the  trials  he  had  endured,  the  way  in  which  he  had 
trudged  his  path?  They  had  not  come  to  listen  to  idle 
nonsense  of  that  kind.  Airs  of  interest  falsely  affected, 
glances  that  counted  the  ovals  of  the  ceiling  or  the  bread- 
crumbs on  the  table-cloth,  mouths  compressed  to  stifle  a 
yawn,  betrayed,  accordingly,  the  general  impatience  pro- 
voked by  this  untimely  story.  Yet  he  himself  seemed  not 
to  weary  of  it.     He  found  pleasure  in  the  recital  of  his 

34 


A  Luncheon  in  the  Place  Vendome 

sufferings  past,  even  as  the  mariner  safe  in  port,  remem- 
bering his  voyagings  over  distant  seas,  and  the  perils  and 
the  great  shipwrecks.  There  followed  the  story  of  his 
good  luck,  the  prodigious  chance  that  had  placed  him  sud- 
denly upon  the  road  to  fortune.  '"  I  was  wandering  about 
the  quays  of  Marseilles  with  a  comrade  as  poverty-stricken 
as  myself,  who  is  become  rich,  he  also,  in  the  service  of  the 
Bey,  and,  after  having  been  my  chum,  my  partner,  is  now 
my  most  cruel  enemy.  I  may  mention  his  name,  pardi! 
It  is  sufBciently  w^ell  known — Hemerlingue.  Yes,  gentle- 
men, the  head  of  the  great  banking  house.  '  Hemerlingue 
&  Co.'  had  not  in  those  days  even  the  wherewithal  to  buy 
a  pennyworth  of  clauvisses  on  the  quay.  Intoxicated  by 
the  atmosphere  of  travel  that  one  breathes  down  there, 
the  idea  came  into  our  minds  of  starting  out,  of  going  to 
seek  our  livelihood  in  some  country  where  the  sun  shines, 
since  the  lands  of  mist  were  so  inhospitable  to  us.  But 
where  to  go?  We  did  what  sailors  sometimes  do  in  order 
to  decide  in  what  low  hole  they  will  squander  their  pay. 
You  fix  a  scrap  of  paper  on  the  brim  of  your  hat.  You 
make  the  hat  spin  on  a  w^alking-stick ;  when  it  stops  spin- 
ning you  follow  the  pointer.  In  our  case  the  paper  needle 
pointed  towards  Tunis.  A  week  later  I  landed  at  Tunis 
with  half  a  louis  in  my  pocket,  and  I  came  back  to-day 
with   twenty-five   millions !  " 

An  electric  shock  passed  round  the  table ;  there  was  a 
gleam  in  every  eye,  even  in  those  of  the  servants.  Car- 
dailhac  said,  "  Phew !  "  Monpavon's  nose  descended  to 
common  humanity. 

"  Yes,  my  boys,  twenty-five  millions  in  liquidated  cash, 
without  speaking  of  all  that  I  have  left  in  Tunis,  of  my  two 
palaces  at  the  Bardo,  of  my  vessels  in  the  harbour  of  La 
Goulette,  of  my  diamonds,  of  my  precious  stones,  which 
are  worth  certainly  more  than  the  double.  And  you 
know,"  he  added,  with  his  kindly  smile  and  in  his  hoarse, 
plebeian  voice,  "  when  that  is  done  there  will  still  be  more." 

The  whole  company  rose  to  its  feet,  galvanized. 

"  Bravo !     Ah,  bravo !  " 

"Splendid!" 

35 


The  Nabob 

"  Deuced  clever — deuced  clever !  " 

"  Now,  that  is  something  worth  talking  about." 

"  A  man  like  him  ought  to  be  in  the  Chamber." 

"  He  will  be,  per  Bacco!  I  answer  for  it,"  said  the 
governor  in  a  piercing  voice ;  and  in  a  transport  of  ad- 
miration, not  knowing  how  to  express  his  enthusiasm,  he 
seized  the  fat,  hairy  hand  of  the  Nabob  and  on  an  unre- 
flective  impulse  raised  it  to  his  lips.  They  are  demon- 
strative in  his  country.  Everybody  was  standing  up;  no 
one  sat  down  again. 

Jansoulet,  beaming,  had  risen  in  his  turn,  and,  throw- 
ing down  his  serviette :  "  Let  us  go  and  have  some  coffee," 
he  said. 

A  glad  tumult  immediately  spread  through  the  salons, 
vast  apartments  in  which  light,  decoration,  sumptuousness, 
were  represented  by  gold  alone.  It  seemed  to  fall  from  the 
ceiling  in  blinding  rays,  it  oozed  from  the  walls  in  mould- 
ings, sashes,  framings  of  every  kind.  A  little  of  it  remained 
on  your  hands  if  you  moved  a  piece  of  furniture  or  opened 
a  window ;  and  the  very  hangings,  dipped  in  this  Pactolus, 
kept  on  their  straight  folds  the  rigidity,  the  sparkle  of  a 
metal.  But  nothing  bearing  the  least  personal  stamp,  noth- 
ing intimate,  nothing  thought  out.  The  monotonous  lux- 
ury of  the  furnished  flat.  And  there  was  a  re-enforcement 
of  this  impression  of  a  moving  camp,  of  a  merely  provisory 
home,  in  the  suggestion  of  travel  which  hovered  like  an  un- 
certainty or  a  menace  over  this  fortune  derived  from  far-off 
sources. 

Coffee  having  been  served,  in  the  Eastern  manner,  with 
all  its  grounds,  in  little  cups  filigreed  with  silver,  the  guests 
grouped  themselves  round,  making  haste  to  drink,  scald- 
ing themselves,  keeping  watchful  eyes  on  each  other  and 
especially  on  the  Nabob  as  they  looked  out  for  the  favour- 
able moment  to  spring  upon  him,  draw  him  into  some  comer 
of  those  immense  rooms,  and  at  length  negotiate  their 
loan.  For  this  it  was  that  they  had  been  awaiting  for 
two  hours ;  this  was  the  object  of  their  visit  and  the  fixed 
idea  which  gave  them  during  the  meal  that  absent,  falsely 
attentive  manner.     But  here  no  more  constraint,  no  more 

36 


A   Luncheon  in  the  Place  Vendome 

pretence.  In  that  peculiar  social  world  of  theirs  it  is  of  com- 
mon knowledge  that  in  the  Nabob's  busy  life  the  hour  of 
coffee  remains  the  only  time  free  for  private  audiences,  and 
each  desiring  to  profit  by  it,  all  having  come  there  in  order  to 
snatch  a  handful  of  wool  from  the  golden  fleece  offered  them 
with  so  much  good  nature,  people  no  longer  talk,  they  no 
longer  listen,  every  man  is  absorbed  in  his  own  errand  of 
business. 

It  is  the  good  Jenkins  who  begins.  Having  drawn  his 
friend  Jansoulet  aside  into  a  recess,  he  submits  to  him 
the  estimates  for  the  house  at  Nanterre.  A  big  purchase, 
indeed !  A  cash  price  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs, 
then  considerable  expenses  in  connection  with  getting  the 
place  into  proper  order,  the  personal  staff,  the  bedding,  the 
nanny-goats  for  milking  purposes,  the  manager's  carriage, 
the  omnibuses  going  to  meet  the  children  coming  by  every 
train.  A  great  deal  of  money.  But  how  well  off  and  com- 
fortable they  will  be  there,  those  dear  little  things !  what 
a  service  rendered  to  Paris,  to  humanity !  The  Govern- 
ment cannot  fail  to  reward  with  a  bit  of  red  ribbon  so  dis- 
interested, so  philanthropic  a  devotion.  "  The  Cross,  on  the 
15th  of  August."  With  these  magic  words  Jenkins  will 
obtain  everything  he  desires.  In  his  merry,  guttural  voice, 
which  seems  always  as  though  it  were  hailing  a  boat  in  a 
fog,  the  Nabob  calls,  "  Bompain ! " 

The  man  in  the  fez,  quickly  leaving  the  liqueur-stand, 
walks  majestically  across  the  room,  whispers,  moves  away, 
and  returns  with  an  inkstand  and  a  counterfoil  check-book 
from  which  the  slips  detach  themselves  and  fly  away  of  their 
own  accord.  A  fine  thing,  wealth !  To  sign  a  check  on 
his  knee  for  two  hundred  thousand  francs  troubles  Jansou- 
let no  more  than  to  draw  a  louis  from  his  pocket. 

Furious,  with  noses  in  their  cups,  the  others  watch  this 
little  scene  from  a  distance.  Then,  as  Jenkins  takes  his 
departure,  bright,  smiling,  with  a  nod  to  the  various  groups, 
Monpavon  seizes  the  governor :  "  Now  is  our  chance." 
And  both,  springing  on  the  Nabob,  drag  him  off  towards 
a  couch,  oblige  him  almost  forcibly  to  sit  down,  press  upon 
each  bide  of  him  with  a  ferocious  little  laugh  that  seems 

.Z7 


The  Nabob 

to  signify,  "What  shall  we  do  with  him  now?"  Get 
money  out  of  him,  the  largest  amount  possible.  It  is  need- 
ed, to  set  afloat  once  more  the  Territorial  Bank,  for  years 
lain  aground  on  a  sand-bank,  buried  to  the  very  top  of  its 
masts.  A  superb  operation,  this  re-flotation,  if  these  two 
gentlemen  are  to  be  believed,  for  the  submerged  bank  is  full 
of  ingots,  of  precious  things,  of  the  thousand  various  forms 
of  wealth  of  a  new  country  discussed  by  everybody  and 
known  by  none. 

In  founding  this  unique  establishment,  Paganetti  of 
Porto-Vecchio  had  as  his  aim  to  monopolize  the  commer- 
cial development  of  the  whole  of  Corsica:  iron  mines,  sul- 
phur mines,  copper  mines,  marble  quarries,  coral  fisheries, 
oyster  beds,  water  ferruginous  and  sulphurous,  immense 
forests  of  thuya,  of  cork-oak,  and  to  establish  for  the  facili- 
tation of  this  development  a  network  of  railways  over  the 
island,  with  a  service  of  packet-boats  in  addition.  Such  is 
the  gigantic  undertaking  to  which  he  has  devoted  himself. 
He  has  sunk  considerable  capital  in  it,  and  it  is  the  new- 
comer, the  workman  of  the  last  hour,  who  will  gain  the 
whole  profit. 

While  with  his  Italian  accent  and  violent  gestures  the 
Corsican  enumerates  the  "  splendours  "  of  the  affair,  Mon- 
pavon,  haughty,  and  with  an  air  calculated  to  command 
confidence,  nods  his  head  approvingly  with  conviction,  and 
from  time  to  time,  when  he  judges  the  moment  propitious, 
throws  into  the  conversation  the  name  of  the  Due  de  Mora, 
which  never  fails  in  its  effect  on  the  Nabob. 

"  Well,  in  short,  how  much  would  be  required?" 

"  Millions,"  says  Monpavon  boldly,  in  the  tone  of  a 
man  who  would  have  no  difficulty  in  addressing  himself 
elsewhere.  "  Yes,  millions ;  but  the  enterprise  is  magnifi- 
cent. And,  as  his  excellency  was  saying,  it  would  provide 
a  capitalist  with  an  opportunity  of  securing  a  high  position, 
even  a  political  position.  Just  think !  In  that  district  with- 
out a  metallic  currency,  you  might  become  counsellor- 
general,  deputy."  The  Nabob  gives  a  start.  And  the  little 
Paganetti,  who  feels  the  bait  quiver  on  his  hook :  "  Yes, 
deputy.     You  will  be  that  whenever  I  choose.     At  a  sign 

38 


A  Luncheon  in  the  Place  Vendome 

from  me  all  Corsica  is  at  your  disposal."  Then  he  launches 
out  into  an  astonishing  improvisation,  counting  the  votes 
which  he  controls,  the  cantons  which  will  obey  his  call. 
"  You  bring  me  your  capital.  I — I  give  you  an  entire  peo- 
ple."   The  cause  is  gained. 

"  Bompain,  Bompain !  "  calls  the  Nabob,  roused  to  en- 
thusiasm. He  has  now  but  one  fear,  that  is  lest  the  thing 
escape  him ;  and  in  order  to  bind  Paganetti,  who  has  not 
concealed  his  need  of  money,  he  hastens  to  effect  the  pay- 
ment of  a  first  instalment  to  the  Territorial  Bank.  New 
appearance  of  the  man  in  red  breeches  with  the  check- 
book which  he  carries  clasped  gravely  to  his  chest,  like  a 
choir-boy  moving  the  Gospel  from  one  side  to  the  other. 
New  inscription  of  Jansoulet's  signature  upon  a  slip,  which 
the  governor  pockets  with  a  negligent  air  and  which  oper- 
ates on  his  person  a  sudden  transformation.  The  Paganetti 
who  was  so  humble  and  spiritless  just  now,  goes  away  with 
the  assurance  of  a  man  worth  four  hundred  thousand  francs, 
while  Monpavon,  carrying  it  even  higher  than  usual,  follows 
after  him  in  his  steps,  and  watches  over  him  with  a  more  than 
paternal  solicitude. 

"  That's  a  good  piece  of  business  done,"  says  the  Nabob 
to  himself.    "  I  can  drink  my  coffee  now." 

But  the  borrowers  are  waiting  for  him  to  pass.  The 
most  prompt,  the  most  adroit,  is  Cardailhac,  the  manager, 
who  lays  hold  of  him  and  bears  him  off  into  a  side- 
room. 

"  Let  us  have  a  little  talk,  old  friend.  I  must  explain 
to  you  the  situation  of  affairs  in  connection  with  our  thea- 
tre." Very  complicated,  doubtless,  the  situation ;  for  here 
is  M.  Bompain,  who  advances  once  more,  and  there  are 
the  slips  of  blue  paper  flying  away  from  the  check-book. 
Whose  turn  now?  There  is  the  journalist  Moessard  com- 
ing to  draw  his  pay  for  the  article  in  the  Messenger;  the 
Nabob  will  find  out  what  it  costs  to  have  one's  self  called 
"  benefactor  of  childhood  "  in  the  morning  papers.  There 
is  the  parish  priest  from  the  country  who  demands  funds 
for  the  restoration  of  his  church,  and  takes  checks  by 
assault  with  the  brutality  of  a  Peter  the  Hermit.    There  is 

39 


The  Nabob 

old  Schwalbach  coming  up  with  nose  in  his  beard  and 
winking  mysteriously. 

"  Sh !  He  has  found  a  pearl  for  monsieur's  gallery,  an 
Hobbema  from  the  collection  of  the  Due  de  Mora.  But 
several  people  are  after  it.     It  will  be  difficult " 

"  I  must  have  it  at  any  price,"  says  the  Nabob,  hooked 
by  the  name  of  Mora.  "  You  understand,  Schwalbach.  I 
must  have  this  Hobbema.  Twenty  thousand  francs  for  you 
if  you  secure  it." 

"  I  shall  do  my  utmost,  M.  Jansoulet." 

And  the  old  rascal  calculates,  as  he  goes  away,  that  the 
twenty  thousand  of  the  Nabob  added  to  the  ten  thousand 
promised  him  by  the  duke  if  he  gets  rid  of  his  picture  for 
him,  will  make  a  nice  little  profit  for  himself. 

While  these  fortunate  ones  follow  each  other,  others 
look  on  around,  wild  with  impatience,  biting  their  nails  to 
the  quick,  for  all  are  come  on  the  same  errand.  From  the 
good  Jenkins,  who  opened  the  advance,  to  the  masseur 
Cabassu,  who  closes  it,  all  draw  the  Nabob  away  to  some 
room  apart.  But,  however  far  they  lead  him  down  this 
gallery  of  reception-rooms,  there  is  always  some  indiscreet 
mirror  to  reflect  the  profile  of  the  host  and  the  gestures  of 
his  broad  back.  That  back  has  eloquence.  Now  and  then 
it  straightens  itself  up  in  indignation,  "  Oh,  no ;  that  is 
too  much."  Or  again  it  sinks  forward  with  a  comical 
resignation,  "  Well,  since  it  must  be  so."  And  always 
Bompain's  fez  in  some  corner  of  the  view. 

When  those  are  finished,  others  arrive.  They  are  the 
small  fry  who  follow  in  the  wake  of  the  big  eaters  in  the 
ferocious  hunts  of  the  rivers.  There  is  a  continual  coming 
and  going  through  these  handsome  white-and-gold  draw- 
ing-rooms, a  noise  of  doors,  an  established  current  of  bare- 
faced and  vulgar  exploitation  attracted  from  the  four  cor- 
ners of  Paris  and  the  suburbs  by  this  gigantic  fortune  and 
incredible  facility. 

For  these  small  sums,  these  regular  distributions,  re- 
course was  not  had  to  the  check-book.  For  such  pur- 
poses the  Nabob  kept  in  one  of  his  rooms  a  mahogany 
chest  of  drawers,  a  horrible  little  piece  of  furniture  repre- 

40 


A  Luncheon  in  the  Place  Vendome 

senting  the  savings  of  a  house  porter,  the  first  that  Jan- 
soulet  had  bought  when  he  had  been  able  to  give  up  hving 
in  furnished  apartments ;  which  he  had  preserved  since, 
like  a  gamblers  fetish ;  and  the  three  drawers  of  which 
contained  always  two  hundred  thousand  francs  in  cash.  It 
was  to  this  constant  supply  that  he  had  recourse  on  the 
days  of  his  large  receptions,  displaying  a  certain  ostenta- 
tion in  the  way  in  which  he  would  handle  the  gold  and 
silver,  by  great  handfuls,  thrusting  it  to  the  bottom  of  his 
pockets  to  draw  it  out  thence  with  the  gesture  of  a  cattle 
dealer;  a  certain  vulgar  way  of  raising  the  skirts  of  his 
frock-coat  and  of  sending  his  hand  "  to  the  bottom  and 
into  the  pile."  To-day  there  must  be  a  terrible  void  in  the 
drawers  of  the  little  chest. 

After  so  many  mysterious  whispered  confabulations, 
demands  more  or  less  clearly  formulated,  chance  entries 
and  triumphant  departures,  the  last  client  having  been  dis- 
missed, the  chest  of  drawers  closed  and  locked,  the  flat 
in  the  Place  Vendome  began  to  empty  in  the  uncertain 
light  of  the  afternoon  towards  four  o'clock,  that  close  of  the 
November  days  so  exceedingly  prolonged  afterward  by 
artificial  light.  The  servants  were  clearing  away  the  coffee 
and  the  raki,  and  bearing  ofif  the  open  and  half-emptied 
cigar-boxes.  The  Nabob,  thinking  himself  alone,  gave  a 
sigh  of  relief.  "  Ouf !  that's  over."  But  no.  Opposite  him, 
some  one  comes  out  from  a  corner  that  is  already  dark,  and 
approaches  with  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

Another ! 

And  at  once,  mechanically,  the  poor  man  made  that 
eloquent,  horse-dealer's  gesture  of  his.  Instinctively,  also, 
the  visitor  showed  a  movement  of  recoil  so  prompt,  so 
hurt,  that  the  Nabob  understood  that  he  was  making  a  mis- 
take, and  took  the  trouble  to  examine  the  young  man  who 
stood  before  him,  simply  but  correctly  dressed,  of  a  dull 
complexion,  without  the  least  sign  of  a  beard,  with  regular 
features,  perhaps  a  little  too  serious  and  fixed  for  his  age, 
which,  aided  by  his  hair  of  pale  blond  colour,  curled  in 
little  ringlets  like  a  powdered  wig,  gave  him  the  appearance 
of  a  young  deputy  of  the  Commons  under  Louis  XVI, 

41 


The  Nabob 

the  head  of  a  Barnave  at  twenty!  This  face,  although  the 
Nabob  beheld  it  for  the  first  time,  was  not  absolutely  un- 
known to  him. 

"What  do  you  desire,  monsieur?" 

Taking  the  letter  which  the  young  man  held  out  to  him, 
he  went  to  a  window  in  order  to  see  to  read  it. 

"  Te !     It  is  from  mamma." 

He  said  it  with  so  happy  an  air ;  that  word  "  mamma  " 
lit  up  all  his  face  with  so  young,  so  kind  a  smile,  that  the 
visitor,  who  had  been  at  first  repulsed  by  the  vulgar  aspect 
of  this  parvenu,  felt  himself  filled  with  sympathy  for  him. 

In  an  undertone  the  Nabob  read  these  few  lines  written 
in  an  awkward  hand,  incorrect  and  shaky,  which  contrasted 
with  the  large  glazed  note-paper,  with  its  heading  "  Cha- 
teau de  Saint-Romans." 

"  My  dear  son,  this  letter  will  be  delivered  to  you  by 
the  eldest  son  of  M.  de  Gery,  the  former  justice  of  the 
peace  for  Bourg-Saint-Andeol,  who  has  shown  us  so  much 
kindness." 

The  Nabob  broke  oflf  his  reading. 

"  I  ought  to  have  recognised  you,  M.  de  Gery.  You 
resemble  your  father.     Sit  down,  I  beg  of  you." 

Then  he  finished  running  through  the  letter.  His 
mother  asked  him  nothing  precise,  but,  in  the  name  of  the 
services  which  the  de  Gery  family  had  rendered  them  in 
former  years,  she  recommended  M.  Paul  to  him.  An 
orphan,  burdened  with  the  care  of  his  two  young  brothers, 
he  had  been  called  to  the  bar  in  the  south,  and  was  now 
coming  to  Paris  to  seek  his  fortune.  She  implored  Jan- 
soulet  to  aid  him,  "  for  he  needed  it  badly,  poor  fellow," 
and  she  signed  herself,  "  Thy  mother  who  pines  for  thee, 
Frangoise." 

This  letter  from  his  mother,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for 
six  years,  those  expressions  of  the  south  country  of  which 
he  could  hear  the  intonations  that  he  knew  so  well,  that 
coarse  handwriting  which  sketched  for  him  an  adored  face, 
all  wrinkled,  scored,  and  cracked,  but  smiling  beneath  its 
peasant's  head-dress,  had  affected  the  Nabob.  During  the 
«ix  weeks  that  he  had  been  in  Fi^ance,  lost  in  the  whirl  of 

42 


A   Luncheon  in  the  Place  Vendome 

Paris,  in  the  business  of  getting  settled  in  his  new  habita- 
tion, he  had  not  yet  given  a  thought  to  his  dear  old  lady 
at  home ;  and  now  he  saw  all  of  her  again  in  these  lines. 
He  remained  a  moment  looking  at  the  letter,  which  trem- 
bled in  his  heavy  fingers. 

Then,  this  emotion  having  passed: 

"  M.  de  Gery,"  said  he,  "  I  am  glad  of  the  opportunity 
which  is  about  to  permit  me  to  repay  to  you  a  little  of  the 
kindness  which  your  family  has  shown  to  mine.  From  to- 
day, if  you  consent,  I  take  you  into  my  house.  You  are 
educated,  you  seem  intelligent,  you  can  be  of  great  service 
to  me.  I  have  a  thousand  plans,  a  thousand  affairs  in  hand. 
I  am  being  drawn  into  a  crowd  of  large  industrial  enter- 
prises. I  want  some  one  who  will  aid  me ;  represent  me 
at  need.  I  have  indeed  a  secretary,  a  steward,  that  excel- 
lent Bompain,  but  the  unfortunate  fellow  knows  nothing  of 
Paris ;  he  has  been,  as  it  were,  bewildered  ever  since  his 
arrival.  You  will  tell  me  that  you  also  come  straight  from 
the  country,  but  that  does  not  matter.  Well  brought  up  as 
you  are,  a  southerner,  alert  and  adaptable,  you  will  quickly 
pick  up  the  routine  of  the  Boulevard,  For  the  rest,  I 
myself  undertake  your  education  from  that  point  of  view. 
In  a  few  weeks  you  will  find  yourself,  I  answer  for  it,  as 
much  at  home  in  Paris  as  I  am." 

Poor  man !  It  was  touching  to  hear  him  speak  of  his 
Parisian  habits,  and  of  his  experience ;  he  whose  destiny  it 
was  to  be  always  a  beginner. 

"  Now,  that  is  understood,  is  it  not?  I  engage  you  as 
secretary.  You  will  have  a  fixed  salary  which  we  will  settle 
directly,  and  I  shall  provide  you  with  the  opportunity  to 
make  your  fortune  rapidly." 

And  while  de  Gery,  raised  suddenly  above  all  the  anx- 
ieties of  a  newcomer,  of  one  who  solicits  a  favour,  of  a 
neophyte,  did  not  move  for  fear  of  awaking  from  a  dream : 

"  Now,"  said  the  Nabob  to  him  in  a  gentle  voice,  "  sit 
down  there,  next  me,  and  let  us  talk  a  little  about  mamma." 


43 


Ill 


MEMOIRS  OF  AN  OFFICE   PORTER — A  MERE  GLANCE  AT  THE 

TERRITORIAL   BANK 

I  HAD  just  finished  my  frugal  morning  repast  and,  as 
my  habit  was,  placed  the  remains  of  my  modest  provisions 
in  the  board-room  safe,  a  magnificent  safe  with  a  secret 
lock,  which  has  served  me  as  a  store-cupboard  during 
four  years,  almost,  that  I  have  been  at  the  Territorial.  Sud- 
denly the  governor  walks  into  the  offices,  with  his  face  all 
red  and  eyes  inflamed,  as  though  after  a  night's  feasting, 
draws  in  his  breath  noisily,  and  in  rude  terms  says  to  me, 
with  his  Italian  accent : 

"  But  this  place  stinks,  Moussiou  Passajon." 
The  place  did  not  stink,  if  you  like  the  word.  Only — 
shall  I  say  it? — I  had  ordered  a  few  onions  to  garnish  a 
knuckle  of  veal  which  Mme.  Seraphine  had  sent  down  to 
me,  she  being  the  cook  on  the  second  floor,  whose  ac- 
counts I  write  out  for  her  every  evening.  I  tried  to  ex- 
plain the  matter  to  the  governor,  but  he  had  flown  into  a 
temper,  saying  that  to  his  mind  there  was  no  sense  in  poi- 
soning the  atmosphere  of  an  office  in  that  way,  and  that  it 
was  not  worth  while  to  maintain  premises  at  a  rent  of 
twelve  thousand  francs,  with  eight  windows  fronting  full 
on  the  Boulevard  Malesherbes,  in  order  to  roast  onions 
in  them.  I  don't  know  what  he  did  not  say  to  me  in  his 
passion.  For  my  own  part,  naturally  I  got  angry  at  hear- 
ing myself  addressed  in  that  insolent  manner.  It  is  surely 
the  least  a  man  can  do  to  be  polite  with  people  in  his  serv- 
ice whom  he  does  not  pay.  What  the  deuce !  So  I  an- 
swered him  that  it  was  annoying,  in  truth,  but  that  if  the 

44 


The  Territorial  Bank 

Territorial  Bank  paid  me  what  it  owed  me,  namely,  four 
years'  arrears  of  salary,  plus  seven  thousand  francs  per- 
sonal advances  made  by  me  to  the  governor  for  expenses 
of  cabs,  newspapers,  cigars,  and  American  grogs  on  board 
days,  I  would  go  and  eat  decently  at  the  nearest  cook- 
shop,  and  should  not  be  reduced  to  cooking,  in  the  room 
where  our  board  was  accustomed  to  sit,  a  wretched  stew, 
for  which  I  had  to  thank  the  public  compassion  of  female 
cooks.    Take  that ! 

In  speaking  thus  I  had  yielded  to  an  impulse  of  indig- 
nation very  excusable  in  the  eyes  of  any  person  whatever 
acquainted  with  my  position  here.  Even  so,  I  had  said 
nothing  improper  and  had  confined  myself  within  the  lim- 
its of  language  conformable  to  my  age  and  education.  (I 
must  have  mentioned  somewhere  in  the  course  of  these 
memoirs  that  of  the  sixty-five  years  I  have  lived  I  passed 
more  than  thirty  as  beadle  to  the  Faculty  of  Letters  in 
Dijon.  Hence  my  taste  for  reports  and  memoirs,  and 
those  ideas  of  academical  style  of  which  traces  will  be 
found  in  many  passages  of  this  lucubration.)  I  had,  then, 
expressed  myself  in  the  governor's  presence  with  the  most 
complete  reserve,  without  employing  any  one  of  those 
terms  of  abuse  to  which  he  is  treated  by  everybody  here, 
from  our  two  censors — M.  de  Monpavon,  who,  every  time 
he  comes,  calls  him  laughingly  "  Fleur-de-Mazas,"  and  M. 
de  Bois  I'Hery,  of  the  Trumpet  Club,  coarse  as  a  groom, 
who,  for  adieu,  always  greets  him  with,  "  To  your  bedstead, 
bug !  " — to  our  cashier,  whom  I  have  heard  repeat  a  hundred 
times,  tapping  on  his  big  book,  "  That  he  has  in  there 
enough  to  send  him  to  the  galleys  when  he  pleases."  Ah, 
well !  All  the  same,  my  simple  observation  produced  an 
extraordinary  efifect  upon  him.  The  circles  round  his  eyes 
became  quite  yellow,  and,  trembling  with  rage,  one  of 
those  evil  rages  of  his  country,  he  uttered  these  words : 
"  Passajon,  you  are  a  blackguard.  One  word  more,  and 
I  discharge  you !  "  Stupor  nailed  me  to  the  floor  when  I 
heard  them.  Discharge  me — me!  and  my  four  years'  ar- 
rears, and  my  seven  thousand  francs  of  money  lent ! 

As  though  he  could  read  my  thought  before  it  was  put 

45 


The  Nabob 

into  words,  the  governor  replied  that  all  accounts  were 
going  to  be  settled,  mine  included.  "  And  as  to  that,"  he 
added,  "  summon  these  gentlemen  to  my  private  room. 
I  have  important  news  to  announce  to  them." 

Upon  that,  he  went  into  his  office,  banging  the  doors. 

That  devil  of  a  man !  In  vain  you  may  know  him  to 
the  core — know  him  a  liar,  a  comedian — he  manages  al- 
ways to  get  the  better  of  you  with  his  stories.  My  ac- 
count, mine ! — mine !  I  was  so  affected  by  the  thought  that 
my  legs  seemed  to  give  way  beneath  me  as  I  went  to 
inform  the  staff. 

According  to  the  regulations,  there  are  twelve  of  us 
employed  at  the  Territorial  Bank,  including  the  governor 
and  the  handsome  Moessard,  manager  of  Financial  Truth; 
but  more  than  half  of  that  number  are  wanting.  To  begin 
with,  since  Truth  ceased  to  be  issued — it  is  two  years  since 
its  last  appearance — M,  Moessard  has  not  once  set  foot  in 
the  place.  It  seems  he  moves  amid  honours  and  riches,  has 
a  queen  for  his  mistress — a  real  queen — who  gives  him 
all  the  money  he  desires.  Oh,  what  a  Babylon,  this  Paris ! 
The  others  come  from  time  to  time  to  learn  whether 
by  chance  anything  new  has  happened  at  the  bank ;  and, 
as  nothing  ever  has,  we  remain  weeks  without  seeing 
them.  Four  or  five  faithful  ones,  all  poor  old  men  like 
myself,  persist  in  putting  in  an  appearance  regularly  every 
morning  at  the  same  hour,  from  habit,  from  want  of  occu- 
pation, not  knowing  what  else  to  do.  Every  one,  however, 
busies  himself  about  things  quite  foreign  to  the  work  of 
the  office.  A  man  must  live,  you  know.  And  then,  too, 
one  cannot  pass  the  day  dragging  one's  self  from  easy  chair 
to  easy  chair,  from  window  to  window,  to  look  out  of 
doors  (eight  windows  fronting  on  the  Boulevard).  So  one 
tries  to  do  some  work  as  best  one  can.  I  myself,  as  I  have 
said,  keep  the  accounts  of  Mme.  Seraphine,  and  of  another 
cook  in  the  building.  Also,  I  write  my  memoirs,  which, 
again,  takes  a  good  deal  of  my  time.  Our  receipt  clerk — 
one  who  has  not  very  hard  work  with  us — makes  line  for 
a  firm  that  deals  in  fishing  requisites.  Of  our  two  copying- 
clerks,  one,  who  writes  a  good  hand,  copies  plays  for  a 

46 


The  Territorial  Bank 

dramatic  agency ;  the  other  invents  little  halfpenny  toys 
which  the  hawkers  sell  at  street  corners  about  the  time  o{ 
the  New  Year,  and  manages  by  this  means  to  keep  himself 
from  dying  of  hunger  during  all  the  rest  of  the  year.  Our 
cashier  is  the  only  one  who  does  no  outside  work.  He 
would  believe  his  honour  lost  if  he  did.  He  is  a  very 
proud  man,  who  never  utters  a  complaint,  and  whose  one 
dread  is  to  have  the  appearance  of  being  in  want  of  linen. 
Locked  in  his  office,  he  is  occupied  from  morning  till  even- 
ing in  the  manufacture  of  shirt-fronts,  collars,  and  cuffs  of 
paper.  In  this  he  has  attained  very  great  skill,  and  his 
ever-dazzling  linen  would  deceive,  if  it  were  not  that  at 
the  least  movement,  when  he  walks,  when  he  sits  down,  th€ 
stuff  crackles  upon  him  as  though  he  had  a  cardboard  box 
under  his  waistcoat.  Unfortunately  all  this  paper  does 
not  feed  him ;  and  he  is  so  thin,  has  such  a  mien,  that  yo« 
ask  yourself  on  what  he  lives.  Between  ourselves,  I  sus- 
pect him  of  paying  a  visit  sometimes  to  my  store-cupboard. 
He  can  do  so  with  ease ;  for,  as  cashier,  he  has  the  "  word  " 
which  opens  the  safe  with  the  secret  lock,  and  I  fancy  that 
when  my  back  is  turned  he  forages  a  little  among  my  pro- 
visions. 

These  are  certainly  very  extraordinary,  very  incredible 
internal  arrangements  for  a  banking-house.  It  is,  how- 
ever, the  mere  truth  that  I  am  telling,  and  Paris  is  full  of 
financial  institutions  after  the  pattern  of  ours.  Oh,  if  ever 
I  publish  my  memoirs !  But  to  take  up  the  interrupted 
thread  of  my  story. 

When  he  saw  us  all  collected  in  his  private  room,  the 
manager  said  to  us  with  solemnity : 

"  Gentlemen  and  dear  comrades,  the  time  of  trials  is 
ended.    The  Territorial  Bank  inaugurates  a  new  phase." 

Upon  this  he  commenced  to  speak  to  us  of  a  superb 
conihinazione — it  is  his  favourite  word  and  he  pronounces 
it  in  such  an  insinuating  manner — a  comhinazione  into  which 
there  was  entering  this  famous  Nabob,  of  whom  all  the 
newspapers  are  talking.  The  Territorial  Bank  was  there- 
fore about  to  find  itself  in  a  position  which  would  enable 
il  to  acquit  itself  of  its  obligations  to  its  faithful  servants, 

47 


The  Nabob 

recognise  acts  of  devotion,  rid  itself  of  useless  parasites. 
This  for  me,  I  imagine.  And  in  conclusion :  "  Prepare 
your  statements.  All  accounts  will  be  settled  not  later  than 
to-morrow."  Unhappily  he  has  so  often  soothed  us  with 
lying  words,  that  the  effect  of  his  speech  was  lost.  For- 
merly these  fine  promises  were  always  swallowed.  At  the 
announcement  of  a  new  combinamone,  there  used  to  be 
dancing,  weeping  for  joy  in  the  offices,  and  men  would  em- 
brace each  other  like  shipwrecked  sailors  discovering  a  sail. 

Each  one  would  prepare  his  account  for  the  morrow, 
as  he  had  said.  But  on  the  morrow,  no  manager.  The 
day  following,  still  nobody.  He  had  left  town  on  a  little 
journey. 

At  length,  one  day  when  all  would  be  there,  exasper- 
ated, putting  out  our  tongues,  maddened  by  the  water 
which  he  had  brought  to  our  mouths,  the  governor  would 
arrive,  let  himself  drop  into  an  easy  chair,  his  head  in  his 
hands,  and  before  one  could  speak  to  him :  "  Kill  me," 
he  would  say,  '*  kill  me.  I  am  a  wretched  impostor.  The 
combinasione  has  failed.  It  has  failed,  Pechero!  the  com- 
binasione."  And  he  would  cry,  sob,  throw  himself  on  his 
knees,  pluck  out  his  hair  by  handfuls,  roll  on  the  carpet. 
He  would  call  us  all  by  our  Christian  names,  implore  us 
to  put  an  end  to  his  existence,  speak  of  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren whose  ruin  he  had  consummated.  And  none  of  us 
would  have  the  courage  to  protest  in  face  of  a  despair  so 
formidable.  What  do  I  say?  One  always  ended  by  sym- 
pathizing with  him.  No,  since  theatres  have  existed,  never 
has  there  been  seen  a  comedian  of  his  ability.  But  to-day, 
that  is  all  over,  confidence  is  gone.  When  he  had  left, 
every  one  shrugged  his  shoulders.  I  must  admit,  however, 
that  for  a  moment  I  had  been  shaken.  That  assurance 
about  the  settling  of  my  account,  and  then  the  name  of  the 
Nabob,  that  man  so  rich 

"  You  actually  believe  it,  you  ? "  the  cashier  said  to 
me.  "  You  will  be  always  innocent,  then,  my  poor  Pas- 
sajon.  Don't  disturb  yourself.  It  will  be  the  same  with  the 
Nabob  as  it  was  with  Moessard's  Queen."  And  he  returned 
to  the  manufacture  of  his  shirt-fronts. 

48 


The  Territorial   Bank 

What  he  had  just  said  referred  to  the  time  when  Moes- 
sard  was  making  love  to  his  Queen,  and  had  promised  the 
governor  that  in  case  of  success  he  would  induce  her  Majesty 
to  put  capital  into  our  undertaking.  At  the  office,  we  were 
all  aware  of  this  new  adventure,  and  very  anxious,  as  you 
may  imagine,  that  it  should  succeed  quickly,  since  our 
money  depended  upon  it.  For  two  months  this  story  held 
all  of  us  breathless.  We  felt  some  disquiet,  we  kept  a 
watch  on  Moessard's  face,  considered  that  the  lady  was 
inclined  to  insist  upon  a  great  deal  of  ceremony ;  and  our 
old  cashier,  with  his  dignified  and  serious  air,  when  he  was 
questioned  on  the  matter,  would  answer  gravely,  behind 
his  wire  screen :  "  Nothing  fresh,"  or  "  The  thing  is  in  a 
good  way."  Whereupon  everybody  was  contented.  One 
would  say  to  another,  "  It  is  making  progress,"  as  though 
merely  an  ordinary  enterprise  was  in  question.  No,  in 
good  truth,  there  is  only  one  Paris,  where  one  can  see 
such  things.  Positively  it  makes  your  head  turn  some- 
times. In  a  word,  Moessard,  one  fine  morning,  ceased 
coming  to  the  office.  He  had  succeeded,  it  appears,  but 
the  Territorial  Bank  had  not  seemed  to  him  a  sufficiently 
advantageous  investment  for  the  money  of  his  mistress. 
Now,  I  ask  you,  was  that  honest? 

For  that  matter,  the  notion  of  honesty  is  lost  so  easily 
as  hardly  to  be  believed.  When  I  reflect  that  I,  Passajon, 
with  my  white  hair,  my  venerable  appearance,  my  so 
blameless  past — thirty  years  of  academical  services — am 
grown  accustomed  to  living  like  a  fish  in  the  water,  in  the 
midst  of  these  infamies,  this  swindling!  One  might  well 
ask  what  I  am  doing  here,  why  I  remain,  how  I  am  come 
to  this. 

How  I  am  come  to  it?  Oh,  mon  Dicu!  very  simply. 
Four  years  ago,  my  wife  being  dead,  my  children  married, 
I  had  just  retired  from  my  post  as  hall-porter  at  the  col- 
lege, when  an  advertisement  in  the  newspaper  chanced  to 
meet  my  eye :  "  Wanted,  an  office-porter,  middle-aged,  at 
the  Territorial  Bank,  56,  Boulevard  Malesherbes.  Good 
references."  Let  me  confess  it  at  the  outset.  The  modern 
Babylon  had  always  attracted  me.    Then,  too,  I  felt  myself 

49 


The  Nabob 

still  a  young  man.  I  saw  before  me  ten  good  years  during 
which  I  might  earn  a  little  money,  a  great  deal,  perhaps, 
by  means  of  investing  my  savings  in  the  banking-house 
which  I  should  enter.  So  I  wrote,  inclosing  my  photo- 
graph, the  one  taken  at  Crespon's,  in  the  Market  Place, 
which  represents  me  with  chin  closely  shaven,  a  keen  eye 
beneath  my  thick  white  eyebrows,  my  steel  chain  about 
my  neck,  my  ribbon  as  an  academy  official,  *'  the  air  of  a 
conscript  father  upon  his  curule-chair,"  as  M.  Chalmette, 
our  dean,  used  to  say,  (He  insisted  also  that  I  much  re- 
sembled the  late  King  Louis  XVIII ;  less  strongly,  how- 
ever.) I  supplied,  further,  the  best  of  references ;  the  most 
flattering  recommendations  from  the  gentlemen  of  the  col- 
lege. By  return  of  post,  the  governor  replied  that  my  ap- 
pearance pleased  him — I  believe  it,  parbleu!  an  antechamber 
in  the  charge  of  a  person  with  a  striking  face  like  mine  is 
a  bait  for  the  shareholder — and  that  I  might  come  when  I 
liked.  I  ought,  you  may  say  to  me,  myself  also  to  have 
made  my  inquiries.  Eh !  no  doubt.  But  I  had  to  give  so 
much  information  about  myself  that  it  never  occurred  to 
me  to  ask  for  any  about  them.  Besides,  how  could  a  man 
be  suspicious,  seeing  this  admirable  installation,  these  lofty 
ceilings,  these  great  safes,  as  big  as  cupboards,  and  these 
mirrors,  in  which  you  can  see  yourself  from  head  to  knee? 
And  then  those  sonorous  prospectuses,  those  millions  that 
I  seemed  to  hear  flying  through  the  air,  those  colossal  en- 
terprises with  their  fabulous  profits.  I  was  dazzled,  fas- 
cinated. It  must  be  mentioned,  too,  that  at  the  time  the 
house  did  not  bear  quite  the  aspect  which  it  has  to-day. 
Certainly,  business  was  already  going  badly — our  business 
always  has  gone  badly — the  paper  appeared  only  at  irregu- 
lar intervals.  But  a  little  combinasione  of  the  governor's 
enabled  him  to  save  appearances. 

He  had  conceived  the  idea,  just  imagine,  of  opening  a 
patriotic  subscription  for  the  purpose  of  erecting  a  statue 
to  General  Paolo  Paoli,  or  some  such  name ;  in  any  case, 
to  a  great  countryman  of  his  own.  Money  flowed  accord- 
ingly into  the  Territorial.  Unfortunately,  that  state  of 
things  did  not  last.    By  the  end  of  a  couple  of  months  the 

50 


The  Territorial  Bank 

statue  was  eaten  up  before  it  had  been  made,  and  the 
series  of  protests  and  writs  recommenced.  Nowadays  I 
am  accustomed  to  them.  But  in  the  days  when  I  had  just 
come  from  the  country,  the  placards  posted  by  authority 
of  the  courts,  the  Auvergnats  at  the  door,  caused  me  a 
painful  impression.  In  the  house,  nobody  paid  attention 
to  such  things  any  longer.  It  was  known  that  at  the  last 
moment  there  would  always  arrive  a  Monpavon,  a  Bois 
I'Hery,  to  pacify  the  bailiffs;  for  all  those  gentlemen,  be- 
ing deeply  implicated  in  the  concern,  have  an  interest  in 
avoiding  a  bankruptcy.  That  is  the  very  circumstance 
which  saves  him,  our  wily  governor.  The  others  run  after 
their  money — we  know  the  meaning  which  that  expression 
has  in  gaming — and  they  would  not  like  all  the  stock  on 
their  hands  to  become  worthless  save  to  sell  for  waste 
paper. 

Small  and  great,  that  is  the  case  of  all  of  us  who  are 
connected  with  the  firm.  From  the  landlord,  to  whom  two 
years'  rent  is  owing  and  who,  for  fear  of  losing  it  all,  al- 
lows us  to  stay  for  nothing,  to  us  poor  employees,  even  to 
me,  who  am  involved  to  the  extent  of  my  seven  thousand 
francs  of  savings  and  my  four  years  of  arrears,  we  are  run- 
ning after  our  money.  That  is  the  reason  why  I  remain 
obstinately  here. 

Doubtless,  in  spite  of  my  advanced  age,  thanks  to  my 
good  appearance,  to  my  education,  to  the  care  which  I 
have  always  taken  of  my  clothes,  I  might  have  obtained 
some  post  under  other  management.  There  is  one  per- 
son of  excellent  repute  known  to  me,  M.  Joyeuse,  a  book- 
keeper in  the  firm  of  Hemerlingue  &  Son,  the  great  bank- 
ers of  the  Rue  Saint-Honore,  who,  every  time  he  meets 
me,  never  fails  to  remark : 

"  Passajon,  my  friend,  don't  stop  in  that  den  of  brigands. 
You  are  wrong  to  persist  in  remaining.  You  will  never 
get  a  halfpenny  out  of  them.  So  come  to  Hemerlingue's. 
I  undertake  to  find  some  little  corner  for  you  there.  You 
will  earn  less,  but  you  will  be  paid  much  more." 

I  feel  that  he  is  quite  right,  that  worthy  fellow.  But 
the  thing  is  stronger  than  I.     I  cannot  make  up  my  mind 

51  Vol.  18— D 


The  Nabob 

to  leave.  And  yet  it  is  by  no  means  gay,  the  life  I  lead 
here  in  these  great,  cold  rooms,  where  no  one  ever  comes, 
where  each  man  stows  himself  away  in  a  corner  without 
speaking.  What  will  you  have  ?  Each  knows  the  other 
too  well.     Everything  has  been  said  already. 

Again,  until  last  year,  we  used  to  have  sittings  of  the 
board  of  inspection,  meetings  of  shareholders,  stormy  and 
noisy  assemblies,  veritable  battles  of  savages,  from  which 
the  cries  could  be  heard  to  the  Madeleine.  Several  times 
a  week  also  there  would  call  subscribers  indignant  at  no 
longer  ever  receiving  any  news  of  their  money.  It  was 
on  such  occasions  that  our  governor  shone.  I  have  seen 
these  people,  monsieur,  go  into  his  office  furious  as  wolves 
thirsting  for  blood,  and,  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  come 
out  milder  than  sheep,  satisfied,  reassured,  and  their  pock- 
ets relieved  of  a  few  bank-notes.  For,  there  lay  the  acme 
of  his  cleverness ;  in  the  extraction  of  money  from  the 
unlucky  people  who  came  to  demand  it.  Nowadays  the 
shareholders  of  the  Territorial  Bank  no  longer  give  any 
sign  of  existence.  I  think  they  are  all  dead  or  else  re- 
signed to  the  situation.  The  board  never  meets.  The 
sittings  only  take  place  on  paper ;  it  is  I  who  am  charged 
with  the  preparation  of  a  so-called  report — always  the 
same — which  I  copy  out  afresh  each  quarter.  We  should 
never  see  a  living  soul,  if,  at  long  intervals,  there  did  not 
rise  from  the  depths  of  Corsica  some  subscribers  to  the 
statue  of  Paoli,  curious  to  know  how  the  monument  is 
progressing;  or,  it  may  be,  some  worthy  reader  of  Finan- 
cial Truth,  which  died  over  two  years  ago,  who  calls  to 
renew  his  subscription  with  a  timid  air,  and  begs  a  little 
more  regularity,  if  possible,  in  the  forwarding  of  the  paper. 
There  is  a  faith  that  nothing  shakes.  So,  when  one  of  these 
innocents  falls  among  our  hungry  band,  it  is  something 
terrible.  He  is  surrounded,  hemmed  in,  an  attempt  is  made 
to  secure  his  name  for  one  of  our  lists,  and,  in  case  of  re- 
sistance, if  he  wishes  to  subscribe  neither  to  the  Paoli 
monument  nor  to  Corsican  railways,  these  gentlemen  deal 
him  what  they  call — my  pen  blushes  to  write  it — what  they 
call,  I  say,  "  the  drayman  thrust." 

52 


The  Territorial  Bank 

Here  is  what  it  is :  We  always  keep  at  the  office  a  parcel 
prepared  in  advance,  a  well-corded  case  which  arrives  nom- 
inally from  the  railway  station  while  the  visitor  is  present. 
"  There  are  twenty  francs  carriage  to  pay,"  says  the  one 
among  us  who  brings  the  thing  in.  (Twenty  francs,  some- 
times thirty,  according  to  the  appearance  of  the  patient.) 
Every  one  then  begins  to  ransack  his  pockets :  "  Twenty 
francs  carriage !  but  I  haven't  got  it."  "  Nor  I  either. 
What  a  nuisance !  "  Some  one  runs  to  the  cash-till.  Closed. 
The  cashier  is  summoned.  He  is  out.  And  the  gruff  voice 
of  the  drayman,  growing  impatient  in  the  antechamber: 
"  Come,  come,  make  haste."  (It  is  generally  I  who  play 
the  drayman,  because  of  the  strength  of  my  vocal  organs.) 
What  is  to  be  done  now?  Return  the  parcel?  That  will 
vex  the  governor.  "  Gentlemen,  I  beg,  will  you  permit 
me,"  ventures  the  innocent  victim,  opening  his  purse. 
"  Ah,  monsieur,  indeed — "  He  hands  over  his  twenty 
francs,  he  is  ushered  to  the  door,  and,  as  soon  as  his  heel 
is  turned,  we  all  divide  the  fruit  of  the  crime,  laughing  like 
highway  robbers. 

Fie !  M.  Passajon.  At  your  age,  such  a  trade !  Eh ! 
mon  Dicu!  I  well  know  it.  I  know  that  I  should  do  my- 
self more  honour  in  quitting  this  evil  place.  But  what! 
You  would  have  me  then  renounce  the  hope  of  getting 
back  anything  of  all  I  have  put  in  here.  No,  it  is  not  pos- 
sible. There  is  urgent  need  on  the  contrary  that  I  should 
remain,  that  I  should  be  on  the  watch,  always  at  hand, 
ready  to  profit  by  any  windfall,  if  one  should  come.  Oh, 
for  example,  I  swear  it  upon  my  ribbon,  upon  my  thirty 
years  of  academical  service,  if  ever  an  afifair  like  this  of  the 
Nabob  allow  me  to  recover  my  disbursements,  I  shall  not 
wait  another  single  minute.  I  shall  quickly  be  off  to  look 
after  my  pretty  little  vineyard  down  yonder,  near  Monbars, 
cured  forever  of  my  thoughts  of  speculation.  But,  alas! 
that  is  a  very  chimerical  hope.  Exhausted,  used  up,  known 
as  we  are  upon  the  Paris  market,  with  our  stocks  which  are 
no  longer  quoted  on  the  Bourse,  our  bonds  which  are  near 
being  waste  paper,  so  many  lies,  so  ,many  debts,  and  the 
hole  that  grows  ever  deeper  and  deeper.    (We  owe  at  this 

53 


The  Nabob 

moment  three  million  five  hundred  thousand  francs.  It  is 
not,  however,  those  three  millions  that  worry  us.  On  the 
contrary,  it  is  they  that  keep  us  going ;  but  we  have  with 
the  concierge  a  little  bill  of  a  hundred  and  twenty-five 
francs  for  postage-stamps,  a  month's  gas  bill,  and  other 
little  things.  That  is  the  really  terrible  part  of  it.)  And 
we  are  expected  to  believe  that  a  man,  a  great  financier 
like  this  Nabob,  even  though  he  were  just  arrived  from 
the  Congo,  or  dropped  from  the  moon  the  same  day,  would 
be  fool  enough  to  put  his  money  into  a  concern  like  this. 
Come !  Is  the  thing  possible  ?  You  may  tell  that  story  to 
the  marines,  my  dear  governor. 


B4 


IV 

A   DEBUT   IN    SOCIETY 

"  M.  Bernard  Jansoulet!" 

The  plebeian  name,  accentuated  proudly  by  the  liveried 
servants,  and  announced  in  a  resounding  voice,  sounded  in 
Jenkins's  drawing-rooms  like  the  clash  of  a  cymbal,  one 
of  those  gongs  which,  in  fairy  pieces  at  the  theatre,  are 
the  prelude  to  fantastic  apparitions.  The  light  of  the  chan- 
deliers paled,  every  eye  sparkled  at  the  dazzling  perspec- 
tive of  the  treasures  of  the  Orient,  of  the  showers  of  se- 
quins and  of  pearls  evoked  by  the  magic  syllables  of  that 
name,  yesterday  unknown. 

He,  it  was  he  himself,  the  Nabob,  the  rich  among  the 
rich,  the  great  Parisian  curiosity,  spiced  by  that  relish  of 
adventure  which  is  so  pleasing  to  the  surfeited  crowd.  All 
heads  turned,  all  conversations  were  interrupted ;  near  the 
door  there  was  a  pushing  among  the  guests,  a  crush  as 
upon  the  quay  of  a  seaport  to  witness  the  entry  of  a  felucca 
laden  with  gold. 

Jenkins  himself,  so  hospitable,  so  self-possessed,  who 
was  standing  in  the  first  drawing-room  receiving  his  guests, 
abruptly  quitted  the  group  of  men  about  him  and  hurried 
to  place  himself  at  the  head  of  the  galleons  bearing  down 
upon  the  guest. 

"  You  are  a  thousand  times,  a  thousand  times  kind. 
Mme.  Jenkins  will  be  so  glad,  so  proud. — Come,  let  me 
conduct  you !  " 

And  in  his  haste,  in  his  vainglorious  delight,  he  bore 
Jansoulet  off  so  quickly  that  the  latter  had  no  time  to  pre- 
sent his  companion,  Paul  de  Gery,  to  whom  he  was  giving 
his  first  entry  into  society.  The  young  man  welcomed 
this  forgetfulness.     He  slipped  away  among  the  crowd  of 

55 


The  Nabob 

black  dress-coats  constantly  pressed  back  at  each  new  ar- 
rival, buried  himself  in  it,  seized  by  that  wild  terror  which 
is  experienced  by  every  young  man  from  the  country  at 
his  first  introduction  to  a  Paris  drawing-room,  especially 
when  he  is  intelligent  and  refined,  and  beneath  his  breast- 
plate of  linen  does  not  wear  like  a  coat  of  mail  the  imper- 
turbable assurance  of  a  boor. 

All  you,  Parisians  of  Paris,  who  from  the  age  of  six- 
teen, in  your  first  dress-coat  and  with  opera-hat  against 
your  thigh,  have  been  wont  to  air  your  adolescence  at 
receptions  of  all  kinds,  you  know  nothing  of  that  anguish, 
compounded  of  vanity,  of  timidity,  of  recollections  of  ro- 
mantic readings,  which  keeps  a  young  man  from  opening 
his  mouth  and  so  makes  him  awkward  and  for  a  whole 
night  pins  him  down  to  one  spot  in  a  doorway,  and  con- 
verts him  into  a  piece  of  furniture  in  a  recess,  a  poor,  wan- 
dering and  wretched  being,  incapable  of  manifesting  his 
existence  save  by  an  occasional  change  of  place,  dying  of 
thirst  rather  than  approach  the  bufifet,  and  going  away 
without  having  uttered  a  word,  unless  perhaps  to  stammer 
out  one  of  those  incoherent  pieces  of  foolishness  which 
he  remembers  for  months,  and  which  make  him,  at  night, 
as  he  thinks  of  them,  heave  an  "  Ah !  "  of  raging  shame, 
with  head  buried  in  the  pillow. 

Paul  de  Gery  was  that  martyr.  Away  yonder  in  his 
country  home  he  had  always  lived  a  very  retired  existence 
with  an  old,  pious,  and  gloomy  aunt,  up  to  the  time  when 
the  law-student,  destined  in  the  first  instance  to  the  career  in 
which  his  father  had  left  an  excellent  reputation,  had  found 
himself  introduced  to  a  few  judges'  drawing-rooms,  an- 
cient, melancholy  dwellings  with  faded  pier-glasses,  where 
he  used  to  go  to  make  a  fourth  at  whist  with  venerable 
shadows.  Jenkins's  evening  party  was  therefore  a  debut 
for  this  provincial,  of  whom  his  very  ignorance  and  his 
southern  adaptability  made  immediately  an  observer. 

From  the  place  where  he  stood,  he  watched  the  curious 
defile  of  Jenkins's  guests  which  had  not  yet  come  to  an 
end  at  midnight ;  all  the  clients  of  the  fashionable  physi- 
cian ;  the  fine  flower  of  societv ;  a  strong  political  and  finan- 

56 


A   Debut  in   Society 

cial  element,  bankers,  deputies,  a  few  artists,  all  the  jaded 
people  of  Parisian  "  high  life,"  wan-faced,  with  glittering 
eyes,  saturated  with  arsenic  like  greedy  mice,  but  with  ap- 
petite insatiable  for  poison  and  for  life.  The  drawing- 
room  being  thrown  open,  the  vast  antechamber  of  which 
the  doors  had  beeo  removed  allowed  to  be  seen,  laden 
with  flowers  at  the  sides,  the  principal  staircase  of  the  man- 
sion, over  which  swept,  now  shaken  out  to  their  full  ex- 
tent, the  long  trains  whose  silky  weight  seemed  to  give  a 
backward  pull  to  the  undraped  busts  of  the  women  in  the 
course  of  that  pretty  ascending  movement  which  brought 
them  into  view,  little  by  little,  till  the  complete  flower  of 
their  splendour  was  reached.  The  couples  as  they  gained 
the  top  seemed  to  be  making  an  entry  on  the  stage  of  a 
theatre ;  and  that  was  twice  true,  since  each  person  left  on 
the  last  step  the  contracted  eyebrows,  the  lines  that  marked 
preoccupation,  the  wearied  air,  his  vexations,  his  sorrows, 
to  display  instead  a  contented  face,  a  gay  smile  over  the 
reposeful  harmony  of  the  features.  The  men  exchanged 
honest  shakes  of  the  hand,  exhibitions  of  fraternal  good- 
feeling;  the  women,  preoccupied  with  themselves,  as  they 
stood  making  little  caracoling  movements,  with  trembling 
graces,  play  of  eyes  and  shoulders,  murmured,  without 
meaning  anything,  a  few  words  of  greeting : 

"  Thank  you — oh,  thank  you  !  How  kind  you  are !  " 
Then  the  couples  would  separate,  for  evening  parties 
are  no  longer  those  gatherings  of  charming  wits,  in  which 
feminine  delicacy  was  wont  to  compel  the  character,  the 
lofty  knowledge,  the  genius,  even,  of  men  to  bow  gra- 
ciously before  it ;  but  these  overcrowded  routs,  in  which 
the  women,  who  alone  are  seated,  chattering  together  like 
slaves  in  a  harem,  have  no  longer  aught  save  the  pleasure 
of  being  beautiful  or  appearing  so.  De  Gery,  after  having 
wandered  through  the  doctor's  library,  the  conservatory, 
the  billiard-room,  where  men  were  smoking,  weary  of  se- 
rious and  dry  conversation  which  seemed  to  him  out  of 
place  amid  surroundings  so  decorated  and  in  the  brief  hour 
of  pleasure — some  one  had  asked  him  carelessly,  without 
looking  at  him,  what  the   Bour^  was  doing  that  day — 

57. 


The  Nabob 

made  his  way  again  towards  the  door  of  the  large  draw- 
ing-room, which  was  barricaded  by  a  wedged  crowd  of 
dress-coats,  a  sea  of  heads  bent  sideways  and  peering  past 
each  other,  watching. 

This  salon  was  a  spacious  apartment  richly  furnished 
with  the  artistic  taste  which  distinguished  the  host  and  host- 
ess. .  There  were  a  few  old  pictures  on  the  light  background 
of  the  hangings.  A  monumental  chimneypiece,  adorned 
by  a  handsome  group  in  marble — "  The  Seasons,"  by  Se- 
bastien  Ruys — around  which  long  green  stems  cut  in  lace- 
work  or  of  a  goffered  bronze-like  rigidity  curved  back 
towards  the  mirror  as  towards  the  limpidity  of  a  clear  lake. 
On  the  low  seats,  women  in  close  groups,  so  close  as  al- 
most to  blend  the  delicate  colours  of  their  toilettes,  form- 
ing an  immense  basket  of  living  flowers,  above  which  there 
floated  the  gleam  of  bare  shoulders,  of  hair  sown  with  dia- 
monds that  looked  like  drops  of  water  on  the  dark  women, 
glittering  reflections  on  the  fair,  and  the  same  heady  per- 
fume, the  same  confused  and  gentle  hum,  compact  of  vi- 
brant warmth  and  intangible  wings,  which,  in  summer, 
caresses  a  garden-bed  through  all  its  flowering  time.  Now 
and  then  a  little  laugh,  rising  into  this  luminous  atmosphere, 
a  quicker  inspiration  in  the  air,  which  would  cause 
aigrettes  and  curls  to  tremble,  a  handsome  profile  to  stand 
out  suddenly.     Such  was  the  aspect  of  the  drawing-room. 

A  few  men  were  present,  a  very  small  number,  however, 
and  all  of  them  personages  of  note,  laden  with  years  and 
decorations.  They  were  standing  about  near  couches,  lean- 
ing over  the  backs  of  chairs,  with  that  air  of  condescension 
which  men  assume  when  speaking  to  children.  But  in  the 
peaceful  buzz  of  these  conversations,  one  voice  rang  out 
piercing  and  brazen,  that  of  the  Nabob,  who  was  tranquilly 
performing  his  evolutions  across  this  social  hothouse  with 
the  assurance  bestowed  upon  him  by  his  immense  wealth, 
and  a  certain  contempt  for  women  which  he  had  brought 
back  from  the  East. 

At  that  moment,  comfortably  installed  on  a  settee,  his 
big  hands  in  yellow  gloves  crossed  carelessly  one  over  the 
other,  he  was  talking  with  a  very  handsome  woman,  whose 

58 


A   Debut  in  Society 

original  physiognomy — much  vitahty  coupled  with  severe 
features — stood  out  pale  among  the  pretty  faces  about 
her,  just  as  her  dress,  all  white,  classic  in  its  folds  and 
following  closely  the  lines  of  her  supple  figure,  contrasted 
with  toilettes  that  were  richer,  but  among  which  none  had 
that  air  of  daring  simplicity.  From  his  corner,  de  Gery 
admired  the  low  and  smooth  forehead  beneath  its  fringe 
of  downward  combed  hair,  the  well-opened  eyes,  deep  blue 
in  colour,  an  abysmal  blue,  the  mouth  which  ceased  to 
smile  only  to  relax  its  pure  curve  into  an  expression  that 
was  weary  and  drooping.  In  sum,  the  rather  haughty  mien 
of  an  exceptional  being. 

Somebody  near  him  mentioned  her  name — Felicia 
Ruys.  At  once  he  understood  the  rare  attraction  of  this 
young  girl,  the  continuer  of  her  father's  genius,  whose  bud- 
ding celebrity  had  penetrated  even  to  the  remote  country 
district  where  he  had  lived,  with  the  aureole  of  reputed 
beauty.  While  he  stood  gazing  at  her,  admiring  her  least 
gestures,  a  little  perplexed  by  the  enigma  of  her  hand- 
some countenance,  he  heard  whispers  behind  him. 

"  But  see  how  pleasant  she  is  with  the  Nabob !  If  the 
duke  were  to  come  in !  " 

"The  Due  de  Mora  is  coming?" 

"  Certainly.  It  is  for  him  that  the  party  is  given ;  to 
bring  about  a  meeting  between  him  and  Jansoulet." 

"  And  you  think  that  the  duke  and  Mile.  Ruys " 

"  Where  have  you  come  from  ?  It  is  an  intrigue  known 
to  all  Paris.  The  affair  dates  from  the  last  exhibition,  for 
which  she  did  a  bust  of  him." 

"And  the  duchess?" 

"  Bah !  it  is  not  her  first  experience  of  that  sort.  Ah ! 
there  is  Mme.  Jenkins  going  to  sing." 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  drawing-room,  a  more 
violent  swaying  of  the  crowd  near  the  door,  and  conversa- 
tion ceased  for  a  moment.  Paul  de  Gery  breathed.  What 
he  had  just  heard  had  oppressed  his  heart.  He  felt  himself 
reached,  soiled,  by  this  mud  flung  in  handfuls  over  the  ideal 
which  in  his  own  mind  he  had  formed  of  that  splendid 
adolescence,  matured  by  the  sun  of  Art  to  so  penetrating 

59 


The  Nabob 

3,  charm.  He  moved  away  a  little,  changed  his  place.  He 
feared  to  hear  again  some  whispered  infamy,  Mme.  Jen- 
kins's voice  did  him  good,  a  voice  that  was  famous  in  the 
drawing-rooms  of  Paris  and  that  in  spite  of  all  its  mag- 
nificence had  nothing  theatrical  about  it,  but  seemed  an 
emotional  utterance  vibrating  over  unstudied  sonorities. 
The  singer,  a  woman  of  forty  or  forty-live,  had  splendid 
ash-blond  hair,  delicate,  rather  nerveless  features,  a  strik- 
ing expression  of  kindness.  Still  good-looking,  she  was 
dressed  in  the  costly  taste  of  a  woman  who  has  not  given 
up  the  thought  of  pleasing.  Indeed,  she  was  far  from  hav- 
ing given  it  up.  Married  a  dozen  years  ago,  for  a  second 
time,  to  the  doctor,  they  seemed  still  to  be  at  the  first 
months  of  their  dual  happiness.  While  she  sang  a  popular 
Russian  melody,  savage  and  sweet  like  the  smile  of  a  Slav, 
Jenkins  was  ingenuously  proud,  without  seeking  to  dis- 
simulate the  fact,  his  broad  face  all  beaming ;  and  she,  each 
time  that  she  bent  her  head  as  she  regained  her  breath, 
glanced  in  his  direction  a  timid,  affectionate  smile  that  flew 
to  seek  him  over  the  unfolded  music.  And  then,  when  she 
had  finished  amid  an  admiring  and  delighted  murmur,  it  was 
touching  to  notice  how  discreetly  she  gave  her  husband's 
hand  a  secret  squeeze,  as  though  to  secure  to  themselves  a 
corner  of  private  bliss  in  the  midst  of  her  great  triumph. 
Young  de  Gery  was  feeling  cheered  by  the  spectacle  of 
this  happy  couple,  when  quite  close  to  him  a  voice  mur- 
mured— it  was  not,  however,  the  same  voice  that  he  had 
heard  just  before : 

"  You  know  what  they  say — that  the  Jenkinses  are  not 
married." 

"  How  absurd !  " 

"  I  assure  you.  It  would  seem  that  there  is  a  veritable 
Mme.  Jenkins  somewhere,  but  not  the  lady  we  know.  Be- 
sides, have  you  noticed " 

The  dialogue  continued  in  an  undertone.  Mme.  Jen- 
kins advanced,  bowing,  smiling,  while  the  doctor,  stop- 
ping a  tray  that  was  being  borne  round,  brought  her  a 
glass  of  claret  with  the  alacrity  of  a  mother,  an  impresario, 
a  lover,     Calumnv,  calumny,  ineffaceable  defilement!     To 

'60 


A   Debut  in  Society 

the  provincial  young  man,  Jenkins's  attentions  now  seemed 
exaggerated.  He  fancied  that  there  was  something  affected 
about  them,  something  dehberate,  and,  too,  in  the  words  of 
thanks  which  she  addressed  in  a  low  voice  to  her  husband 
he  thought  he  could  detect  a  timidity,  a  submissiveness, 
not  consonant  with  the  dignity  of  the  legitimate  spouse, 
glad  and  proud  in  an  assured  happiness.  "  But  Society  is 
a  hideous  affair !  "  said  de  Gery  to  himself,  dismayed  and 
with  cold  hands.  The  smiles  around  him  had  upon  him 
the  effect  of  hypocritical  grimaces.  He  felt  shame  and 
disgust.  Then  suddenly  revolting :  "  Come,  it  is  not  pos- 
sible." And,  as  though  in  reply  to  this  exclamation,  be- 
hind him  the  scandalous  tongue  resumed  in  an  easy  tone : 
"  After  all,  you  know,  I  cannot  vouch  for  its  truth.  I  am 
only  repeating  what  I  have  heard.  But  look!  Baroness 
Hemerlingue.    He  gets  all  Paris,  this  Jenkins." 

The  baroness  moved  forward  on  the  arm  of  the  doctor, 
w^ho  had  rushed  to  meet  her,  and  appeared,  despite  all  his 
control  of  his  facial  muscles,  a  little  ill  at  ease  and  discom- 
fited. He  had  thought,  the  good  Jenkins,  to  profit  by  the 
opportunity  afforded  by  his  evening  party  to  bring  about 
a  reconciliation  between  his  friend  Hemerlingue  and  his 
friend  Jansoulet,  who  were  his  two  most  wealthy  clients 
and  embarrassed  him  greatly  with  their  intestine  feud.  The 
Nabob  was  perfectly  willing.  He  bore  his  old  chum  no 
grudge.  Their  quarrel  had  arisen  out  of  Hemerlingue's 
marriage  with  one  of  the  favourites  of  the  last  Bey.  "  A 
story  with  a  woman  at  the  bottom  of  it,  in  short,"  said 
Jansoulet,  and  a  story  which  he  would  have  been  glad 
to  see  come  to  an  end,  since  his  exuberant  nature  found 
every  antipathy  oppressive.  But  it  seemed  that  the  baron 
was  not  anxious  for  any  settlement  of  their  differences; 
for,  notwithstanding  his  word  passed  to  Jenkins,  his  wife 
arrived  alone,  to  the  Irishman's  great  chagrin. 

She  was  a  tall,  slender,  frail  person,  with  eyebrows  that 
suggested  a  bird's  plumes,  and  a  youthful  intimidated  man- 
ner. She  was  aged  about  thirty  but  looked  twenty,  and  wore 
a  head-dress  of  grasses  and  ears  of  corn  drooping  over  very 
black  hair  peppered  with  diamonds.    With  her  long  lashes 

6i 


The  Nabob 

against  cheeks  white  with  that  transparency  of  complexion 
which  characterizes  women  who  have  long  led  a  cloistered 
existence,  and  a  little  ill  at  ease  in  her  Parisian  clothes, 
she  resembled  less  one  who  had  formerly  been  a  woman 
of  the  harem  than  a  nun  who,  having  renounced  her  vows, 
was  returning  into  the  world. 

An  air  of  piety,  of  extreme  devoutness,  in  her  bearing, 
a  certain  ecclesiastical  trick  of  walking  with  downcast  eyes, 
elbows  close  to  the  body,  hands  crossed,  mannerisms  which 
she  had  acquired  in  the  very  religious  atmosphere  in  which 
she  had  lived  since  her  conversion  and  her  recent  baptism, 
completed  this  resemblance.  And  you  can  imagine  with 
what  ardent  curiosity  that  worldly  assembly  regarded  this 
quondam  odalisk  turned  fervent  Catholic,  as  she  advanced 
escorted  by  a  man  with  a  livid  countenance  like  that  of 
some  spectacled  sacristan,  Maitre  le  Merquier,  deputy  of 
Lyons,  Hemerlingue's  man  of  business,  who  accompanied 
the  baroness  whenever  the  baron  "  was  somewhat  indis- 
posed," as  on  this  evening. 

At  their  entry  into  the  second  drawing-room,  the  Nabob 
came  straight  up  to  her,  expecting  to  see  appear  in  her 
wake  the  puffy  face  of  his  old  comrade  to  whom  it  was 
agreed  that  he  should  go  and  offer  his  hand.  The  baron- 
ess perceived  him  and  became  still  whiter.  A  flash  as  of 
steel  shot  from  beneath  her  long  lashes.  Her  nostrils  di- 
lated, quivered,  and,  as  Jansoulet  bowed,  she  quickened  her 
step,  carrying  her  head  high  and  erect,  and  letting  fall  from 
her  thin  lips  an  Arab  word  which  no  one  else  could  under- 
stand but  of  which  the  Nabob  himself  well  appreciated  the 
insult ;  for,  as  he  raised  his  head  again,  his  tanned  face  was 
of  the  colour  of  baked  earthenware  as  it  leaves  the  furnace. 
He  stood  for  an  instant  without  moving,  his  huge  fists 
clinched,  his  mouth  swollen  with  anger.  Jenkins  came 
up  and  rejoined  him,  and  de  Gery,  who  had  followed  the 
whole  scene  from  a  distance,  saw  them  talking  together 
with  preoccupied  air. 

The  thing  was  a  failure.  The  reconciliation,  so  cun- 
ningly planned,  would  not  take  place.  Hemerlingue  did 
not  desire  it.    If  only  the  duke,  now,  did  not  fail  to  keep 

.62 


A   Debut  in  Society 

his  engagement  with  them.  This  reflection  was  prompted 
by  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  The  Wauters  who  was  to  sing 
the  music  of  the  Night  from  the  Enchanted  Flute,  on  her 
way  home  from  her  theatre,  had  just  entered,  completely 
muffled  in  her  hoods  of  lace. 

And  there  was  still  no  sign  of  the  Minister. 

It  was,  however,  a  clearly  understood,  definitely  prom- 
ised arrangement.  Monpavon  was  to  call  for  him  at  the 
club.  From  time  to  time  the  good  Jenkins  glanced  at  his 
watch,  while  applauding  absently  the  bouquet  of  brilliant 
notes  which  the  Wauters  was  pouring  forth  from  her  fairy 
lips,  a  bouquet  costing  three  thousand  francs,  useless,  like 
the  other  expenses  of  the  evening,  if  the  duke  did  not 
come. 

Suddenly  the  double  doors  were  flung  wide  open: 

"His  excellency  M.  le  Due  de  Mora!" 

A  long  quiver  of  excitement  welcomed  him,  a  respect- 
ful curiosity  that  ranged  itself  in  two  rows  instead  of  the 
mobbing  crowd  that  flocked  on  the  heels  of  the  Nabob. 

None  better  than  he  knew  how  to  bear  himself  in  so- 
ciety, to  walk  across  a  drawing-room  with  gravity,  to  en- 
dow futile  things  with  an  air  of  seriousness,  and  to  treat 
serious  things  lightly;  that  was  the  epitome  of  his  attitude 
in  life,  a  paradoxical  distinction.  Still  handsome,  despite 
his  fifty-six  years,  with  a  comeliness  compounded  of  ele- 
gance and  proportion,  wherein  the  grace  of  the  dandy  was 
fortified  by  something  military  about  the  figure  and  the 
haughtiness  of  the  face ;  he  wore  with  striking  effect  his 
black  dress-coat,  on  which,  to  do  honour  to  Jenkins,  he 
had  pinned  a  few  of  his  decorations,  which  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  never  wearing  except  upon  official  occasions.  The 
reflection  from  the  linen,  from  the  white  cravat,  the  dull 
silver  of  the  decorations,  the  smoothness  of  the  thin  hair 
now  turning  gray,  enhanced  the  pallor  of  the  features,  more 
bloodless  than  all  the  bloodless  faces  that  were  to  be  seen 
that  evening  in  the  Irishman's  house. 

He  led  such  a  terrible  life !  Politics,  play  under  all  its 
forms,  from  the  Stock  Exchange  to  the  baccarat-table,  and 
that  reputation  of  a   man   successful   with   women   which 

63 


The  Nabob    , 

had  to  be  maintained  at  all  costs.  Oh,  this  man  was  a  true 
client  of  Jenkins ;  and  this  princely  visit,  he  owed  it  in  good 
sooth  to  the  inventor  of  those  mysterious  pills  which  gave 
that  fire  to  his  glance,  to  his  whole  being  that  energy  so 
vibrating  and  extraordinary. 

"  My  dear  duke,  permit  me  to " 

Monpavon,  with  solemn  air  and  a  great  sense  of  his 
own  importance,  endeavoured  to  efifect  the  presentation  so 
long  looked  forward  to ;  but  his  excellency,  preoccupied, 
seemed  not  to  hear,  continued  his  progress  towards  the 
large  drawing-room,  borne  along  by  one  of  those  electric 
currents  that  break  the  social  monotony.  On  his  passage, 
and  while  he  greeted  the  handsome  Mme.  Jenkins,  the 
ladies  bent  forward  a  little  with  seductive  airs,  a  soft  laugh, 
concerned  to  please.  But  he  noticed  only  one  among  them, 
Felicia,  on  her  feet  in  the  centre  of  a  group  of  men,  dis- 
cussing some  question  as  though  she  were  in  her  studio, 
and  watching  the  duke  come  towards  her,  while  tranquilly 
taking  her  sherbet.  She  greeted  him  with  perfect  natural- 
ness. Those  near  had  discreetly  retired  to  a  little  distance. 
There  seemed  to  exist  between  them,  however,  notwith- 
standing what  de  Gery  had  overheard  with  regard  to  their 
presumed  relations,  nothing  more  than  a  quite  intellectual 
intimacy,  a  playful  familiarity. 

"  I  called  at  your  house,  mademoiselle,  on  my  way  to 
the  Bois." 

"  I  was  informed  of  it.    You  even  went  into  the  studio." 

"  And  I  saw  the  famous  group — my  group." 

"Well?" 

"  It  is  very  fine.  The  hound  runs  as  though  he  were 
mad.  The  fox  scampers  away  admirably.  Only  I  did  not 
quite  understand.  You  had  told  me  that  it  was  our  own 
story,  yours  and  mine." 

"  Ah,  there !  Try.  It  is  an  apologue  that  I  read  in — 
You  do  not  read  Rabelais,  M.  le  Due?" 

"  My  faith,  no.     He  is  too  coarse." 

"  Ah,  well,  his  works  were  the  text-book  of  my  first 
reading  lessons.  Very  badly  brought  up,  you  know.  Oh, 
exceedingly  badly.    My  apologue,  then^  is  taken  from  Rabe- 

64 


A   Debut  in   Society 

lais.  Here  it  is :  Bacchus  created  a  wonderful  fox,  impos- 
sible to  capture.  Vulcan,  on  the  other  hand,  gave  a  dog 
of  his  own  creation  the  power  to  catch  every  animal  that  he 
should  pursue.  '  Now,'  as  my  author  has  it,  '  it  happened 
that  the  two  met.'  You  see  what  a  wild  and  interminable 
chase.  It  seems  to  me,  my  dear  duke,  that  destiny  has  in 
the  same  way  brought  us  together,  endowed  with  conflict- 
ing attributes ;  you  who  have  received  from  the  gods  the 
gift  of  reaching  all  hearts,  I  whose  heart  will  never  be  made 
prisoner." 

She  spoke  these  words,  looking  him  full  in  the  face, 
almost  laughing,  but  sheathed  and  erect  in  the  white  tunic 
which  seemed  to  defend  her  person  against  the  liberties 
of  his  thought.  He,  the  conqueror,  the  irresistible,  had 
never  before  met  one  of  this  audacious  and  headstrong 
breed.  He  brought  to  bear  upon  her,  therefore,  all  the 
magnetic  currents  of  his  seductiveness,  while  around  them 
the  rising  murmur  of  the  fete,  the  soft  laughter,  the  rustle 
of  satins  and  the  rattling  of  pearls  formed  the  accompani- 
ment to  this  duet  of  mundane  passion  and  juvenile  irony. 
He  resumed  after  a  minute's  pause : 

''  But  how  did  the  gods  escape  from  that  awkward  situ- 
ation ?  " 

"  By  turning  the  two  runners  into  stone." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  he,  "  that  is  a  solution  which 
I  do  not  at  all  accept.  I  defy  the  gods  ever  to  petrify 
my  heart." 

A  fiery  gleam  shot  for  a  moment  from  his  eyes,  extin- 
guished immediately  by  the  thought  that  people  were  ob- 
serving them. 

In  efifect,  people  were  observing  them  intently,  but  no 
one  with  so  much  curiosity  as  Jenkins,  who  wandered 
round  them  a  little  way  ofT,  impatient  and  fidgety,  as 
though  he  were  annoyed  with  Felicia  for  taking  private 
possession  of  the  important  personage  of  the  assembly. 
The  young  girl  laughingly  called  the  duke's  attention  to  it. 

"  People  will  say  that  I  am  monopolizing  you." 

She  pointed  out  to  him  Monpavon  waiting,  standing 
near  the  Nabob  who,  from  afar,  was  gazing  at  his  excel- 

65 


The  Nabob 

lency  with  the  beseeching,  submissive  eyes  of  a  big,  good- 
tempered  mastiff.  The  Minister  of  State  then  remembered 
the  object  which  had  brought  him.  He  bowed  to  the 
young  girl  and  returned  to  Monpavon,  who  was  able  at 
last  to  present  to  him  "  his  honourable  friend,  M.  Bernard 
Jansoulet."  His  excellency  bowed  slightly,  the  parvenu 
humbled  himself  lower  than  the  earth,  then  they  chatted 
for  a  moment. 

A  group  curious  to  observe.  Jansoulet,  tall,  strong,  with 
an  air  of  the  people  about  him,  a  sunburned  skin,  his  broad 
back  arched  as  though  made  round  for  ever  by  the  low 
bowings  of  Oriental  courtiery,  his  big,  short  hands  split- 
ting his  light  gloves,  his  excessive  gestures,  his  southern 
exuberance  chopping  up  his  words  like  a  puncher.  The 
other,  a  high-bred  gentleman,  a  man  of  the  world,  ele- 
gance itself,  easy  in  his  least  gestures,  though  these,  how- 
ever, were  extremely  rare,  carelessly  letting  fall  unfinished 
sentences,  relieving  by  a  half  smile  the  gravity  of  his  face, 
concealing  beneath  an  imperturbable  politeness  the  deep 
contempt  which  he  had  for  man  and  woman ;  and  it  was  in 
that  contempt  above  all  that  his  strength  lay.  In  an  Amer- 
ican drawing-room  the  antithesis  would  have  been  less 
violent.  The  Nabob's  millions  would  have  re-established 
the  balance  and  even  made  the  scale  lean  to  his  side.  But 
Paris  does  not  yet  place  money  above  every  other  force, 
and  to  realize  this,  it  was  suflficient  to  observe  the  great 
contractor  wriggling  amiably  before  the  great  gentleman 
and  casting  under  his  feet,  like  the  courtier's  cloak  of  ermine, 
the  dense  vanity  of  a  newly  rich  man. 

From  the  corner  in  which  he  had  ensconced  himself, 
de  Gery  was  watching  the  scene  with  interest,  knowing 
what  importance  his  friend  attached  to  this  introduction, 
when  the  same  chance  which  all  through  the  evening  had 
so  cruelly  been  giving  the  lie  to  the  native  simplicity  of 
his  inexperience,  caused  him  to  distinguish  a  short  dia- 
logue near  him,  amid  that  buzz  of  many  conversations 
through  which  each  hears  just  the  word  that  interests 
him. 

"  It  is  indeed  the  least  that  Monpavon  can  do,  to  enable 

66 


A   Debut  in   Society 

him  to  make  a  few  good  acquaintances.  He  has  intro- 
duced him  to  so  many  bad  ones.  You  know  that  he  has 
just  put  Paganetti  and  all  his  gang  on  his  shoulders." 

"Poor  fellow!     But  they  will  devour  him." 

"  Bah !  It  is  only  fair  that  he  should  be  made  to  dis- 
gorge a  little.  He  has  been  such  a  thief  himself  away 
yonder  among  the  Turks." 

"Really,  do  you  believe  that  is  so?" 

"Do  I  believe  it?  I  am  in  possession  of  very  precise 
details  on  the  point  which  I  have  from  Baron  Hemer- 
lingue,  the  banker,  who  effected  the  last  Tunisian  loan.  He 
knows    some    stories   about   the    Nabob,    he    does.     Just 


imagine." 


And  the  infamous  gossip  commenced.  For  fifteen 
years  Jansoulet  had  exploited  the  former  Bey  in  a  scan- 
dalous fashion.  Names  of  purveyors  were  cited  and  tricks 
wonderful  in  their  assurance,  their  elTrontery;  for  instance, 
the  story  of  a  musical  frigate,  yes,  a  veritable  musical  box, 
like  a  dining-room  picture,  which  he  had  bought  for  two 
hundred  thousand  francs  and  sold  again  for  ten  millions; 
the  cost  price  of  a  throne  sold  at  three  millions  for  which  the 
account  could  be  seen  in  the  books  of  an  upholsterer  of  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Honore  did  not  exceed  a  hundred  thou- 
sand francs;  and  the  funniest  part  of  it  was  that,  the  Bey 
having  changed  his  mind,  the  royal  seat,  fallen  into  dis- 
grace before  it  had  even  been  unpacked,  remained  still  nailed 
in  its  packing-case  at  a  custom-house  in  Tripoli. 

Next,  beyond  these  wildly  extravagant  commissions  on 
the  provision  of  the  least  toy,  they  laid  stress  upon  accusa- 
tions more  grave  but  no  less  certain,  since  they  also  sprang 
from  the  same  source.  It  seemed  there  was,  adjoining  the 
seraglio,  a  harem  of  European  women  admirably  equipped 
for  his  Highness  by  the  Nabob,  who  must  have  been  a  good 
judge  in  such  matters,  having  practised  formerly,  in  Paris — 
before  his  departure  for  the  East — the  most  singular  trades : 
vendor  of  theatre-tickets,  manager  of  a  low  dancing-hall, 
and  of  an  establishment  more  ill-famed  still.  And  the  whis- 
pering ended  in  a  smothered  laugh,  the  coarse  laugh  of  men 
chatting  among  themselves. 

67 


The  Nabob 

The  first  impulse  of  the  young  man  from  the  country, 
as  he  heard  these  infamous  calumnies,  was  to  turn  round 
and  exclaim : 

"  You  lie !  " 

A  few  hours  earlier  he  would  have  done  it  without 
hesitating;  but,  since  he  had  been  there,  he  had  learned 
distrust,  scepticism.  He  contained  himself,  therefore,  and 
listened  to  the  end,  motionless  in  the  same  place,  having 
deep  down  within  himself  an  unavowed  desire  to  become 
further  acquainted  with  the  man  whose  service  he  had  en- 
tered. As  for  the  Nabob,  the  completely  unconscious  sub- 
ject of  this  hideous  recital,  tranquilly  installed  in  a  small 
room  to  which  its  blue  hangings  and  two  shaded  lamps  gave 
a  reposeful  air,  he  was  playing  his  game  of  ecarte  with  the 
Due  de  Mora. 

O  magic  of  Fortune's  argosy!  The  son  of  the  dealer 
in  old  iron  seated  alone  at  a  card-table  opposite  the  first 
personage  of  the  Empire!  Jansoulet  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve the  Venetian  mirror  in  which  were  reflected  his  own 
bright  countenance  and  the  august  head  with  its  parting 
down  the  middle.  Accordingly,  in  order  to  show  his 
appreciation  of  this  great  honour,  he  sought  to  lose  decently 
as  many  thousand-franc  notes  as  possible,  feeling  him- 
self even  so  the  winner  of  the  game,  and  quite  proud  to 
see  his  money  pass  into  those  aristocratic  hands,  whose 
least  gesture  he  studied  as  they  dealt,  cut,  or  held  the 
cards. 

A  circle  had  formed  around  them,  always  keeping  a 
distance,  however,  the  ten  paces  exacted  for  the  salutation 
of  a  prince  ;  it  was  the  public  there  to  witness  this  triumph  in 
which  the  Nabob  was  bearing  his  part  as  in  a  dream,  intox- 
icated by  those  fairy  harmonies  rather  faint  in  the  distance, 
those  songs  that  reached  him  in  snatches  as  over  the  reso- 
nant obstacle  of  a  pool,  the  perfume  of  flowers  that  seem  to 
become  full  blown  in  so  singular  fashion  towards  the  end 
of  Parisian  balls,  when  the  late  hour  that  confuses  all  no- 
tions of  time  and  the  weariness  of  the  sleepless  nights  com- 
municate to  brains  soothed  in  a  more  nervous  atmosphere, 
as  it  were,  a  dizzy  sense  of  enjoyment.    The  robust  nature 

68 


A   Debut  in   Society 

of  Jansoulet,  civilized  savage  that  he  was,  was  more  sensitive 
than  another  to  these  unknown  subtleties,  and  he  had  need 
of  all  his  strength  to  refrain  from  manifesting  by  some  glad 
hurrah,  by  some  untimely  effusion  of  gestures  and  speech, 
the  impulse  of  physical  gaiety  which  pervaded  his  whole 
being,  as  happens  to  those  great  mountain  dogs  that  are 
thrown  into  epileptic  fits  of  madness  by  the  inhaling  of  a 
drop  of  some  essence. 

"  The  sky  is  clear,  the  pavement  dry.  If  you  like,  my 
dear  boy,  we  will  send  the  carriage  away  and  return  on 
foot,"  said  Jansoulet  to  his  companion  as  they  left  Jenkins's 
house. 

De  Gery  accepted  with  eagerness.  He  felt  that  he  re- 
quired to  walk,  to  shake  of¥  in  the  open  air  the  infamies  and 
the  lies  of  that  comedy  of  society  which  had  left  his  heart 
cold  and  oppressed,  with  all  his  life-blood  driven  to  his  tem- 
ples where  he  could  hear  the  swollen  veins  beating.  He 
staggered  as  he  walked,  like  those  unfortunate  persons  who, 
having  been  operated  upon  for  cataract,  in  the  terror  of 
sight  regained,  do  not  dare  put  one  foot  before  the  other. 
But  with  what  a  brutal  hand  the  operation  had  been  per- 
formed!  So  that  great  artist  with  the  glorious  name,  that 
pure  and  untamed  beauty  the  sight  alone  of  whom  had 
troubled  him  like  an  apparition,  was  only  a  courtesan.  Mme. 
Jenkins,  that  stately  woman,  of  bearing  at  once  so  proud 
and  so  gentle,  had  no  real  title  to  the  name.  That  illus- 
trious man  of  science  with  the  open  countenance,  and  a 
manner  so  pleasant  in  his  welcome,  had  the  impudence  thus 
to  parade  a  disgraceful  concubinage.  And  Paris  suspected 
it,  but  that  did  not  prevent  it  from  running  to  their  parties. 
And,  finally,  Jansoulet,  so  kind,  so  generous,  for  whom  he 
felt  in  his  heart  so  much  gratitude,  he  knew  him  to  be 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  gang  of  brigands,  a  brigand  him- 
self and  well  worthy  of  the  conspiracy  organized  to  cause 
him  to  disgorge  his  millions. 

Was  it  possible,  and  how  much  of  it  was  he  to  be 
obliged  to  believe? 

A  glance  which  he  threw  sideways  at  the  Nabob,  whose 
immense  person  almost  blocked  the  pavement,  revealed  to 

69 


The  Nabob 

him  suddenly  in  that  walk  oppressed  by  the  weight  of  his 
wealth,  a  something  low  and  vulgar  which  he  had  not  pre- 
viously remarked.  Yes,  he  was  indeed  the  adventurer 
from  the  south,  moulded  of  the  slimy  clay  that  covers  the 
quays  of  Marseilles,  trodden  down  by  all  the  nomads  and 
wanderers  of  a  seaport.  Kind,  generous,  forsooth !  as  har- 
lots are,  or  thieves.  And  the  gold,  flowing  in  torrents 
through  that  tainted  and  luxurious  world,  splashing  the 
very  walls,  seemed  to  him  now  to  be  loaded  with  all  the 
dross,  all  the  filth  of  its  impure  and  muddy  source.  There 
remained,  then,  for  him,  de  Gery,  but  one  thing  to  do,  to 
go  away,  to  quit  with  all  possible  speed  this  situation  in 
which  he  risked  the  compromising  of  his  good  name,  the 
one  heritage  from  his  father.  Doubtless.  But  the  two  lit- 
tle brothers  down  yonder  in  the  country.  Who  would  pay 
for  their  board  and  lodging?  Who  would  keep  up  the 
modest  home  miraculously  brought  into  being  once  more 
by  the  handsome  salary  of  the  eldest  son,  the  head  of  the 
family  ?  Those  words,  '  head  of  the  family,'  plunged  him 
immediately  into  one  of  those  internal  combats  in  which 
interest  and  conscience  struggled  for  the  mastery — the  one 
brutal,  substantial,  attacking  vigorously  with  straight 
thrusts,  the  other  elusive,  breaking  away  by  subtle  disen- 
gagements— while  the  worthy  Jansoulet,  unconscious  cause 
of  the  conflict,  walked  with  long  strides  close  by  his  young 
friend,  inhaling  the  fresh  air  with  delight  at  the  end  of  his 
lighted  cigar. 

Never  had  he  felt  it  such  a  happiness  to  be  alive ;  and 
this  evening  party  at  Jenkins's,  which  had  been  his  own  first 
real  entry  into  society  as  well  as  de  Gery's,  had  left  with  him 
an  impression  of  porticoes  erected  as  for  a  triumph,  of  an 
eagerly  assembled  crowd,  of  flowers  thrown  on  his  path.  So 
true  is  it  that  things  only  exist  through  the  eyes  that  observe 
them.  What  a  success !  the  duke,  as  he  took  leave  of  him 
inviting  him  to  come  to  see  his  picture  gallery,  which  meant 
the  doors  of  Mora  House  opened  to  him  within  a  week. 
Felicia  Ruys  consenting  to  do  his  bust,  so  that  at  the  next 
exhibition  the  son  of  the  nail-dealer  would  have  his  por- 
trait in  marble  by  the  same  great  artist  who  had  signed 

70 


A  Debut  in  Society 

that  of  the  Minister  of  State.  Was  it  not  the  satisfaction  of 
all  his  childish  vanities? 

And  each  pondering  his  own  thoughts,  sombre  or  glad, 
they  continued  to  walk  shoulder  to  shoulder,  absorbed  and 
so  absent  in  mind  that  the  Place  Vendome,  silent  and 
bathed  in  a  blue  and  chilly  light,  rang  under  their  steps 
before  a  word  had  been  uttered  between  them. 

"  Already?  "  said  the  Nabob.  "  I  should  not  at  all  have 
minded  walking  a  little  longer.  What  do  you  say  ?  "  And 
while  they  strolled  two  or  three  times  around  the  square, 
he  gave  vent  in  spasmodic  bursts  to  the  immense  joy  which 
filled  him. 

"  How  pleasant  the  air  is !  How  one  can  breathe ! 
Thunder  of  God !  I  would  not  have  missed  this  evening's 
party  for  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  What  a  worthy  soul 
that  Jenkins  is!  Do  you  like  Felicia  Ruys's  style  of 
beauty?  For  my  part,  I  dote  on  it.  And  the  duke,  what 
a  great  gentleman !  so  simple,  so  kind.  A  fine  place,  Paris, 
is  it  not,  my  son?  " 

"  It  is  too  complicated  for  me.  It  frightens  me,"  an- 
swered Paul  de  Gery  in  a  hollow  voice. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  understand,"  replied  the  other  with  an 
adorable  fatuity.  "  You  are  not  yet  accustomed  to  it ;  but, 
never  mind,  one  quickly  becomes  so.  See  how  after  a 
single  month  I  find  myself  at  my  ease." 

"  That  is  because  it  is  not  your  first  visit  to  Paris.  You 
had  lived  here." 

"  I  ?     Never  in  my  life.     Who  told  you  that  ?  " 

"  Indeed !  I  thought — "  answered  the  young  man  ;  and 
immediately,  a  host  of  reflections  crowding  into  his  mind: 

"  What,  then,  have  you  jne  to  this  Baron  Hemer- 
lingue?    It  is  a  hatred  to  the     eath  between  you." 

For  a  moment  the  Nabob  was  taken  aback.  That  name 
of  Hemerlingue,  thrown  suddenly  into  his  glee,  recalled  to 
him  the  one  annoying  episode  of  the  evening. 

"  To  him  as  to  the  others,"  said  he  in  a  saddened  voice, 
"  I  have  never  done  anything  save  good.  We  began  to- 
gether in  poverty.  We  made  progress  and  prospered  side 
by  side.     Whenever  he  wished  to  try  a  flight  on  his  own 

71 


The  Nabob 

wings,  I  always  aided  and  supported  him  to  the  best  of  my 
ability.  It  was  I  who  during  ten  consecutive  years  secured 
for  him  the  contracts  for  the  fleet  and  the  army ;  almost 
his  whole  fortune  came  from  that  source.  Then  one  fine 
morning  this  slow-blooded  imbecile  of  a  Bernese  goes  crazy 
over  an  odalisk  whom  the  mother  of  the  Bey  had  caused  to 
be  expelled  from  the  harem.  The  hussy  was  beautiful  and 
ambitious,  she  made  him  marry  her,  and  naturally,  after 
this  brilliant  match,  Hemerlingue  was  obliged  to  leave 
Tunis.  Somebody  had  persuaded  him  to  believe  that  I 
was  urging  the  Bey  to  close  the  principality  to  him.  It 
was  not  true.  On  the  contrary,  I  obtained  from  his  High- 
ness permission  for  Hemerlingue's  son — a  child  by  his 
first  wife — to  remain  in  Tunis  in  order  to  look  after  their 
suspended  interests,  while  the  father  came  to  Paris  to  found 
his  banking-house.  Moreover,  I  have  been  well  rewarded 
for  my  kindness.  When,  at  the  death  of  my  poor  Ahmed, 
the  Mouchir,  his  brother,  ascended  the  throne,  the  Hem- 
erlingues,  restored  to  favour,  never  ceased  to  work  for  my 
undoing  with  the  new  master.  The  Bey  still  keeps  on  good 
terms  with  me ;  but  my  credit  is  shaken.  Well,  in  spite  of 
that,  in  spite  of  all  the  shabby  tricks  that  Hemerlingue  has 
played  me,  that  he  plays  me  still,  I  was  ready  this  evening 
to  hold  out  my  hand  to  him.  Not  only  does  the  black- 
guard refuse  it,  but  he  causes  me  to  be  insulted  by  his 
wife,  a  savage  and  evil-disposed  creature,  who  does  not 
pardon  me  for  always  having  declined  to  receive  her  in  Tunis. 
Do  you  know  what  she  called  me  just  now  as  she  passed  me  ? 
*  Thief  and  son  of  a  dog.'  As  free  in  her  language  as  that, 
the  odalisk —  That  is  to  say,  that  if  I  did  not  know  my  Hem- 
erlingue to  be  as  cowardly  as  he  is  fat —  After  all,  bah !  let 
them  say  what  they  like.  I  snap  my  fingers  at  them. 
What  can  they  do  against  me?  Ruin  me  with  the  Bey? 
That  is  a  matter  of  indifiference  to  me.  There  is  nothing  any 
longer  for  me  to  do  in  Tunis,  and  I  shall  withdraw  myself 
from  the  place  altogether  as  soon  as  possible.  There  is  only 
one  town,  one  country  in  the  world,  and  that  is  Paris — 
Paris  welcoming,  hospitable,  not  prudish,  where  every  in- 
telligent man  may  find  space  to  do  great  things.    And  I, 

72 


A  Debut  in  Society 

now,  do  you  see,  de  Gery,  I  want  to  do  great  things.  I 
have  had  enough  of  mercantile  hfe.  For  twenty  years  I 
have  worked  for  money;  to-day  I  am  greedy  of  glory,  of 
consideration,  of  fame.  I  want  to  be  somebody  in  the  his- 
tory of  my  country,  and  that  will  be  easy  for  me.  With 
my  immense  fortune,  my  knowledge  of  men  and  of  afifairs, 
the  things  I  know  I  have  here  in  my  head,  nothing  is  be- 
yond my  reach  and  I  aspire  to  everything.  Believe  me, 
therefore,  my  dear  boy,  never  leave  me  " — one  would  have 
said  that  he  was  replying  to  the  secret  thought  of  his  young 
companion — "  remain  faithfully  on  board  my  ship.  The 
masts  are  firm ;  I  have  my  bunkers  full  of  coal.  I  swear  to 
you  that  we  shall  go  far,  and  quickly,  nom  cfun  sort! " 

The  ingenuous  southerner  thus  poured  out  his  projects 
into  the  night  with  many  expressive  gestures,  and  from 
time  to  time,  as  they  walked  rapidly  to  and  fro  in  the  vast 
and  deserted  square,  majestically  surrounded  by  its  silent 
and  closed  palaces,  he  raised  his  head  towards  the  man  of 
bronze  on  the  colunm,  as  though  taking  to  witness  that 
great  upstart  whose  presence  in  the  midst  of  Paris  author- 
izes all  ambitions,  endows  every  chimera  with  probability. 

There  is  in  young  people  a  warmth  of  heart,  a  need  of 
enthusiasm  which  is  awakened  by  the  least  touch.  As  the 
Nabob  talked,  de  Gery  felt  his  suspicion  take  wing  and 
all  his  sympathy  return,  together  with  a  shade  of  pity.  No, 
very  certainly  this  man  was  not  a  rascal,  but  a  poor, 
illuded  being  whose  fortune  had  gone  to  his  head  like  a 
wine  too  heavy  for  a  stomach  long  accustomed  to  water. 
Alone  in  the  midst  of  Paris,  surrounded  by  enemies  and  peo- 
ple ready  to  take  advantage  of  him,  Jansoulet  made  upon 
him  the  impression  of  a  man  on  foot  laden  with  gold  passing 
through  some  evil-haunted  wood,  in  the  dark  and  unarmed. 
And  he  reflected  that  it  would  be  well  for  the  protege  to 
watch,  without  seeming  to  do  so,  over  the  protector,  to 
become  the  discerning  Telemachus  of  the  blind  Mentor,  to 
point  out  to  him  the  quagmires,  to  defend  him  against  the 
highwaymen,  to  aid  him,  in  a  word,  in  his  combats  amid 
all  that  swarm  of  nocturnal  ambuscades  which  he  felt  were 
prowling  ferociously  around  the  Nabob  and  his  millions. 

73 


THE  JOYEUSE   FAMILY 

Every  morning  of  the  year,  at  exactly  eight  o'clock, 
a  new  and  almost  tenantless  house  in  a  remote  quarter  of 
Paris,  echoed  to  cries,  calls,  merry  laughter,  ringing  clear 
in  the  desert  of  the  staircase: 

"  Father,  don't  forget  my  music." 

"  Father,  my  crochet  wool." 

"  Father,  bring  us  some  rolls." 

And  the  voice  of  the  father  calling  from  below : 

"  Yaia,  bring  me  down  my  portfolio,  please." 

"  There  you  are,  you  see !  He  has  forgotten  his  port- 
folio." 

And  there  would  be  a  glad  scurry  from  top  to  bottom 
of  the  house,  a  running  of  all  those  pretty  faces  confused 
by  sleep,  of  all  those  heads  with  disordered  hair  which  the 
owners  made  tidy  as  they  ran,  until  the  moment  when, 
leaning  over  the  baluster,  half  a  dozen  girls  bade  loud 
good-bye  to  a  little,  old  gentleman,  neat  and  well-groomed, 
whose  reddish  face  and  short  profile  disappeared  at  length 
in  the  spiral  perspective  of  the  stairs.  M.  Joyeuse  had  de- 
parted for  his  office.  At  once  the  whole  band,  escaped 
from  their  cage,  would  rush  quickly  upstairs  again  to  the 
fourth  floor,  and,  the  door  having  been  opened,  group 
themselves  at  an  open  casement  to  gain  one  last  glimpse 
of  their  father.  The  little  man  used  to  turn  round,  kisses 
were  exchanged  across  the  distance,  then  the  windows 
were  closed,  the  new  and  tenantless  house  became  quiet 
again,  except  for  the  posters  dancing  their  wild  saraband 
in  the  wind  of  the  unfinished  street,  as  if  made  gay,  they 
also,  by  all  these  proceedings.  A  moment  later  the  pho- 
tographer on  the  fifth  floor  would  descend  to  hang  at  the 

74 


The  Joyeuse  Family 

door  his  showcase,  always  the  same,  in  which  was  to  be 
seen  the  old  gentleman  in  a  white  tie  surrounded  by  his 
daughters  in  various  groups ;  he  went  upstairs  again  in  his 
turn,  and  the  calm  which  succeeded  immediately  upon  this 
little  morning  uproar  left  one  to  imagine  that  the  "  father  " 
and  his  young  ladies  had  re-entered  the  case  of  photo- 
graphs, where  they  remained  smiling  and  motionless  until 
evening. 

From  the  Rue  Saint-Ferdinand  to  the  establishment  of 
Hemerlingue  &  Son,  his  employers,  M.  Joyeuse  had  a 
good  three-quarters  of  an  hour's  journey.  He  walked  with 
head  erect  and  straight,  as  though  he  had  feared  to  disar- 
range the  smart  knot  of  the  cravat  tied  by  his  daughters, 
or  his  hat  put  on  by  them,  and  when  the  eldest,  ever 
anxious  and  prudent,  just  as  he  went  out  raised  his  coat- 
collar  to  protect  him  against  the  harsh  gusts  of  the  wind 
that  blew  round  the  street  corner,  even  if  the  temperature 
were  that  of  a  hothouse  M,  Joyeuse  would  not  lower  it 
again  until  he  reached  the  office,  like  the  lover  who,  quit- 
ting his  mistress's  arms,  dares  not  to  move  for  fear  of  los- 
ing the  intoxicating  perfume. 

A  widower  for  some  years,  this  worthy  man  lived  only 
for  his  children,  thought  only  of  them,  went  through  life 
surrounded  by  those  fair  little  heads  that  fluttered  around 
him  confusedly  as  in  a  picture  of  the  Assumption.  All  his 
desires,  all  his  projects,  bore  reference  to  "  those  young 
ladies,"  returned  to  them  without  ceasing,  sometimes  after 
long  circuits,  for  M.  Joyeuse — this  was  connected  no  doubt 
with  the  fact  that  he  possessed  a  short  neck  and  a  small 
figure  whereof  his  turbulent  blood  made  the  circuit  in  a 
moment — was  a  man  of  fecund  and  astonishing  imagina- 
tion. In  his  brain  the  ideas  performed  their  evolutions 
with  the  rapidity  of  hollow  straws  around  a  sieve.  At  the 
office,  figures  kept  his  steady  attention  by  reason  of  their 
positive  quality ;  but,  outside,  his  mind  took  its  revenge 
upon  that  inexorable  occupation.  The  activity  of  the  walk, 
the  habit  that  led  him  by  a  route  where  he  was  familiar 
with  the  least  incidents,  allowed  full  liberty  to  his  imagina- 
tive faculties.     He  invented  at  these  times  extraordinary 

75  Vol.  i8— E 


TL<.  Nabob 

adventures,  enough  of  them  to  prank  out  a  score  of  the 
serial  stories  that  appear  in  the  newspapers. 

If,  for  example,  M.  Joyeuse,  as  he  went  up  the  Fau- 
bourg Saint-Honore,  on  the  right-hand  footwalk — he  al- 
ways took  that  one — noticed  a  heavy  laundry-cart  going 
along  at  a  quick  pace,  driven  by  a  woman  from  the  country 
with  a  child  perched  on  a  bundle  of  linen  and  leaning  over 
somewhat : 

"  The  child ! "  the  terrified  old  fellow  would  cry. 
"  Have  a  care  of  the  child !  " 

His  voice  would  be  lost  in  the  noise  of  the  wheels  and 
his  warning  among  the  secrets  of  Providence.  The  cart 
passed.  He  would  follow  it  for  a  moment  with  his  eye, 
then  resume  his  walk ;  but  the  drama  begun  in  his  mind 
would  continue  to  unfold  itself  there,  with  a  thousand  catas- 
trophes. The  child  had  fallen.  The  wheels  were  about  to 
pass  over  him.  M.  Joyeuse  dashed  forward,  saved  the  little 
creature  on  the  very  brink  of  destruction ;  the  pole  of  the 
cart,  however,  struck  himself  full  in  the  chest  and  he  fell 
bathed  in  blood.  Then  he  would  see  himself  borne  to  some 
chemists'  shop  through  the  crowd  that  had  collected.  He 
was  placed  in  an  ambulance,  carried  to  his  own  house,  and 
then  suddenly  he  would  hear  the  piercing  cry  of  his  daugh- 
ters, his  well-beloved  daughters,  when  they  beheld  him  in 
this  condition.  And  that  agonized  cry  touched  his  heart 
so  deeply,  he  would  hear  it  so  distinctly,  so  realistically: 
"  Papa,  my  dear  papa,"  that  he  would  himself  utter  it  aloud 
in  the  street,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  the  passers-by, 
in  a  hoarse  voice  which  would  wake  him  from  his  fictitious 
nightmare. 

Will  you  have  another  sample  of  this  prodigious  imag- 
ination? It  is  raining,  freezing;  wretched  weather.  M. 
Joyeuse  has  taken  the  omnibus  to  go  to  his  office.  Find- 
ing himself  seated  opposite  a  sort  of  colossus,  with  the 
head  of  a  brute  and  formidable  biceps,  M.  Joyeuse,  himself 
very  small,  very  puny,  with  his  portfolio  on  his  knees, 
draws  in  his  legs  in  order  to  make  room  for  the  enormous 
columns  which  support  the  monumental  body  of  his  neigh- 
bour.   As  the  vehicle  moves  on  and  as  the  rain  beats  on 

76 


The  Joyeuse  Family 

the  windows,  M.  Joyeuse  falls  into  reverie.  And  suddenly 
the  colossus  opposite,  whose  face  is  kind  after  all,  is  very 
much  surprised  to  see  the  little  man  change  colour,  look 
at  him  and  grind  his  teeth,  look  at  him  with  ferocious  eyes, 
an  assassin's  eyes.  Yes,  with  the  eyes  of  a  veritable  assas- 
sin, for  at  that  moment  M.  Joyeuse  is  dreaming  a  terrible 
dream.  He  sees  one  of  his  daughters  sitting  there  oppo- 
site him,  by  the  side  of  this  giant  brute,  and  the  wretch 
has  put  his  arm  round  her  waist  under  her  cape. 

"  Remove   your  hand,   sir  1 "   M.  Joyeuse   has  already 
said  twice  over.     The  other  has  only  sneered.     Now  he^ 
wishes  to  kiss  Elise. 

"  Ah,  rascal !  " 

Too  feeble  to  defend  his  daughter,  M.  Joyeuse,  foam- 
ing with  rage,  draws  his  knife  from  his  pocket,  stabs  the 
insolent  fellow  full  in  the  breast,  and  with  head  high  goes 
off,  strong  in  the  right  of  an  outraged  father,  to  make  his 
declaration  at  the  nearest  police-station. 

"  I  have  just  killed  a  man  in  an  omnibus !  "  At  the 
sound  of  his  own  voice  actually  uttering  these  sinister 
words,  but  not  in  the  police-station,  the  poor  fellow  wakes 
up,  guesses  from  the  bewildered  manner  of  the  passengers 
that  he  must  have  spoken  the  words  aloud,  and  very  quick- 
ly takes  advantage  of  the  conductor's  call,  "  Saint-Phi- 
lippe— Pantheon — Bastille — "  to  alight,  feeling  greatly  con- 
fused, amid  general  stupefaction. 

This  imagination  constantly  on  the  stretch,  gave  to  M. 
Joyeuse  a  singular  physiognomy,  feverish  and  worn,  in 
strong  contrast  with  the  general  correct  appearance  of  a 
subordinate  clerk  which  he  presented.  In  one  day  he  lived 
so  many  passionate  existences.  The  race  is  more  numer- 
ous than  one  thinks  of  these  waking  dreamers,  in  whom 
a  too  restricted  fate  compresses  forces  unemployed  and 
heroic  faculties.  Dreaming  is  the  safety-valve  through 
which  all  those  expend  themselves  with  terrible  ebullitions, 
as  of  the  vapour  of  a  furnace  and  floating  images  that  are 
forthwith  dissipated  into  air.  From  these  visions  some  re- 
turn radiant,  others  exhausted  and  discouraged,  as  they  find 
themselves  once  more  on  the  every-day  level.    M.  Joyeuse 

77 


The  Nabob 

was  of  these  latter,  rising  without  ceasing  to  heights  whence 
a  man  cannot  but  re-descend,  somewhat  bruised  by  the 
velocity  of  the  transit. 

Now,  one  morning  that  our  "  visionary  "  had  left  his 
house  at  his  habitual  hour,  and  under  the  usual  circum- 
stances, he  began  at  the  turning  of  the  Rue  Saint-Ferdi- 
nand one  of  his  little  private  romances.  As  the  end  of  the 
year  was  at  hand,  perhaps  it  w^as  the  hammer-strokes  on  a 
wooden  hut  which  was  being  erected  in  the  neighbouring 
timber-yard  that  caused  his  thoughts  to  turn  to  "  presents — 
New  Year's  Day."  And  immediately  the  word  bounty  im- 
planted itself  in  his  mind  as  the  first  landmark  of  a  marvel- 
lous story.  In  the  month  of  December  all  persons  in 
Hemerlingue's  service  received  double  pay,  and  you  know 
that  in  small  households  there  are  founded  on  windfalls  of 
this  kind  a  thousand  projects,  ambitious  or  kind,  presents 
to  be  made,  a  piece  of  furniture  to  be  replaced,  a  little  sum 
of  money  to  be  saved  in  a  drawer  against  the  unforeseen. 

In  simple  fact,  M.  Joyeuse  was  not  rich.  His  wife,  a 
Mile,  de  Saint-Amand,  tormented  with  ideas  of  greatness 
and  society,  had  set  this  little  clerk's  household  on  a  ruin- 
ous footing,  and  though  since  her  death  three  years  had 
passed  during  which  Bonne  Maman  had  managed  the 
housekeeping  with  so  much  wisdom,  they  had  not  yet  been 
able  to  save  anything,  so  heavy  had  proved  the  burden  of 
the  past.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  the  good  fellow  that  this 
year  the  bounty  would  be  larger  by  reason  of  the  increase 
of  work  which  had  been  caused  by  the  Tunisian  loan.  The 
loan  constituted  a  very  fine  stroke  of  business  for  the  firm, 
too  fine  even,  for  M.  Joyeuse  had  permitted  himself  to  re- 
mark in  the  office  that  this  time  "  Hemerlingue  &  Son 
had  shaved  the  Turk  a  little  too  close." 

"  Certainly,  yes,  the  bounty  will  be  doubled,"  reflected 
the  visionary,  as  he  walked ;  and  already  he  saw  himself,  a 
month  thence,  mounting  with  his  comrades,  for  the  New 
Year's  visit,  the  little  staircase  that  led  to  Hemerlingue's 
apartment.  He  announced  the  good  news  to  them ;  then 
he  detained  M.  Joyeuse  for  a  few  words  in  private.  And, 
behold,   that   master   habitually   so   cold   in   his   manner, 

78 


The  Joyeuse  Family 

sheathed  in  his  yellow  fat  as  in  a  bale  of  raw  silk,  became 
affectionate,  paternal,  communicative.  He  desired  to  know 
how  many  daughters  Joyeuse  had. 

"  I  have  three ;  no,  I  should  say,  four,  M.  le  Baron.  I 
always  confuse  them.    The  eldest  is  such  a  sensible  girl." 

Further  he  wished  to  know  their  ages. 

"  Aline  is  twenty,  M.  le  Baron.  She  is  the  eldest.  Then 
we  have  Elise,  who  is  preparing  for  the  examination  which 
she  must  pass  when  she  is  eighteen.  Henriette,  who  is 
fourteen,  and  Zaza  or  Yaia  who  is  only  twelve." 

That  pet  name  of  Yaia  intensely  amused  M.  le  Baron, 
who  inquired  next  what  were  the  resources  of  this  inter- 
esting family. 

"My  salary,  M.  le  Baron;  none  else.  I  had  a  little 
money  put  aside,  but  my  poor  wife's  illness,  the  education 
of  the  girls " 

"  What  you  are  earning  is  not  sufificient,  my  dear  Joy- 
euse.    I  raise  your  salary  to  a  thousand  francs  a  month." 

"  Oh,  M.  le  Baron,  it  is  too  much." 

But  although  he  had  uttered  this  last  sentence  aloud,  in 
the  ear  of  a  policeman  who  watched  with  a  mistrustful  eye 
the  little  man  pass,  gesticulating  and  nodding  his  head,  the 
poor  visionary  awoke  not.  With  admiration  he  saw  him- 
self returning  home,  announcing  the  news  to  his  daughters, 
taking  them  to  the  theatre  in  the  evening  in  celebration  of 
the  happy  day.  Dicii!  how  pretty  they  looked  in  the  front 
of  their  box,  the  Demoiselles  Joyeuse,  what  a  bouquet  of 
rosy  faces!  And  then,  the  next  day,  the  two  eldest  asked 
in  marriage  by —  Impossible  to  determine  by  whom,  for 
M.  Joyeuse  had  just  suddenly  found  himself  once  more 
beneath  the  arch  of  the  Hemerlingue  establishment,  before 
the  swing-door  surmounted  by  a  "  counting-house  "  in  let- 
ters of  gold. 

"  I  shall  always  be  the  same,  it  seems,"  said  he  to  him- 
self, laughing  a  little  and  passing  his  hand  over  his  fore- 
head, on  which  the  perspiration  stood  in  drops. 

In  a  good  humour  as  the  result  of  his  pleasant  fancy  and 
at  the  sight  of  the  fire  crackling  in  the  suite  of  parquet- 
floored  offices,  with  their  screens  of  iron  trellis-work  and 

79 


The  Nabob 

their  air  of  secrecy  in  the  cold  Hght  of  the  ground  floor, 
where  one  could  count  the  pieces  of  gold  without  dazzling 
his  eyes,  M.  Joyeuse  gave  a  gay  greeting  to  the  other  clerks 
and  slipped  on  his  working  coat  and  his  black  velvet  cap. 
Suddenly,  some  one  whistled  from  upstairs,  and  the  cashier, 
applying  his  ear  to  the  tube,  heard  the  oily  and  gelatinous 
voice  of  Hemerlingue,  the  sole  and  veritable  Hemerlingue 
— the  other,  the  son,  was  always  absent — asking  for  M. 
Joyeuse. 

What!     Could  the  dream  be  continuing? 

He  was  conscious  of  a  great  agitation ;  took  the  little 
inside  staircase  which  he  had  seen  himself  ascending  just 
before  so  bravely,  and  found  himself  in  the  banker's  pri- 
vate room,  a  narrow  apartment,  with  a  very  high  ceiling, 
furnished  only  with  green  curtains  and  enormous  leather 
easy  chairs  of  a  size  proportioned  to  the  terrific  bulk  of  the 
head  of  the  house.  He  was  there,  seated  at  his  desk  which 
his  belly  prevented  him  from  approaching  very  closely, 
obese,  ill-shaped,  and  so  yellow  that  his  round  face  with 
its  hooked  nose,  the  head  of  a  fat  and  sick  owl,  suggested 
as  it  were  a  light  at  the  end  of  the  solemn  and  gloomy 
room.  A  rich  Moorish  merchant  grown  mouldy  in  the 
damp  of  his  little  court-yard.  Beneath  his  heavy  eyelids, 
raised  with  an  effort,  his  glance  glittered  for  a  second 
when  the  accountant  entered ;  he  signed  to  him  to  ap- 
proach, and  slowly,  coldly,  pausing  to  take  breath  between 
his  sentences,  instead  of  "  M.  Joyeuse,  how  many  daugh- 
ters have  you  ?  "  he  said  this  : 

"  Joyeuse,  you  have  allowed  yourself  to  criticise  in  the 
office  our  last  operations  in  the  Tunis  market.  Useless  to 
defend  yourself.  Your  remarks  have  been  reported  to  me 
word  for  word.  And  as  I  am  unable  to  admit  them  from 
the  mouth  of  one  in  my  service,  I  give  you  notice  that 
dating  from  the  end  of  this  month  you  cease  to  be  a  mem- 
ber of  my  establishment." 

A  wave  of  blood  mounted  to  the  accountant's  face,  fell 
back,  returned  again,  bringing  each  time  a  confused  whiz- 
zing into  his  ears,  into  his  brain  a  tumult  of  thoughts  and 
images. 

80 


The  Joyeuse  Family 

His  daughters! 

What  was  to  become  of  them? 

Employment  is  so  hard  to  find  at  that  period  of  the  year. 

Poverty  appeared  before  his  eyes  and  also  the  vision  of 
an  unfortunate  man  falling  at  Hemerlingue's  feet,  suppli- 
cating him,  threatening  him,  springing  at  his  throat  in  an 
access  of  despairing  rage.  All  this  agitation  passed  over 
his  features  like  a  gust  of  wind  which  throws  the  surface 
of  a  lake  into  ripples,  fashioning  there  all  manner  of  mobile 
whirlpools ;  but  he  remained  mute,  standing  in  the  same 
place,  and  upon  the  master's  intimation  that  he  could  with- 
draw, went  down  with  tottering  step  to  resume  his  work 
in  the  counting-house. 

In  the  evening  when  he  went  home  to  the  Rue  Saint- 
Ferdinand,  M.  Joyeuse  told  his  daughters  nothing.  He 
did  not  dare.  The  idea  of  darkening  that  radiant  gaiety 
which  was  the  life  of  the  house,  of  making  dull  with 
heavy  tears  those  pretty  bright  eyes,  was  insupportable  to 
him.  Timorous,  too,  and  weak,  he  was  of  those  who  al- 
ways say,  "  Let  us  wait  till  to-morrow."  He  waited  there- 
fore before  speaking,  at  first  until  the  month  of  November 
should  be  ended,  deluding  himself  with  the  vague  hope 
that  Hemerlingue  might  change  his  mind,  as  though  he  did 
not  know  that  will  as  of  some  mollusk  flabby  and  tenacious 
upon  its  ingot  of  gold.  Then  when  his  salary  had  been 
paid  up  and  another  accountant  had  taken  his  place  be- 
fore the  high  desk  at  which  he  had  stood  for  so  long,  he 
hoped  to  find  something  else  quickly  and  repair  his  mis- 
fortune before  being  obliged  to  confess  it. 

Every  morning  he  feigned  to  start  for  the  ofifice,  al- 
lowed himself  to  be  equipped  and  accompanied  to  the  door 
as  usual,  his  huge  leather  portfolio  all  ready  for  the  even- 
ing's numerous  commissions.  Although  he  would  forget 
some  of  them  on  purpose  because  of  the  approaching  and 
so  problematical  end  of  the  month,  he  did  not  lack  time 
now  to  execute  them.  He  had  his  day  to  himself,  the 
whole  of  an  interminable  day  which  he  spent  in  rushing 
about  Paris  in  the  search  for  an  employment.  People  gave 
him  addresses,  excellent  recommendations.   But  in  that  ter- 

8i 


The  Nabob 

rible  month  of  December,  so  cold  and  with  such  short 
hours  of  davHght,  bringing  with  it  so  many  expenses  and 
preoccupations,  employees  need  to  take  patience  and  em- 
ployers also.  Each  man  tries  to  end  the  year  in  peace, 
postponing  to  the  month  of  January,  to  that  great  leap  of 
time  towards  a  fresh  halting-place,  any  changes,  ameliora- 
tions, attempts  at  a  new  life. 

In  every  house  where  M.  Joyeuse  presented  himself,  he 
beheld  faces  suddenly  grow  cold  as  soon  as  he  explained 
the  object  of  his  visit. 

"  What !  You  are  no  longer  with  Hemerlingue  &  Son  ? 
How  is  that  ?  " 

He  would  explain  the  matter  as  best  he  could  through 
a  caprice  of  the  head  of  the  firm,  the  ferocious  Hemer- 
lingue whom  Paris  knew;  but  he  was  conscious  of  a  cold- 
ness, a  mistrust  in  the  uniform  reply  which  he  received: 
"  Call  on  us  again  after  the  holidays."  And,  timid  as  he 
was  to  begin  with,  he  reached  a  point  at  which  he  could 
no  longer  bring  himself  to  call  on  any  one,  a  point  at 
which  he  would  walk  past  the  same  door  a  score  of  times  and 
never  have  crossed  its  threshold  at  all  had  it  not  been  for 
the  thought  of  his  daughters.  This  alone  pushed  him  along 
by  the  shoulders,  put  heart  in  his  legs,  despatched  him  in 
the  course  of  the  same  day  to  the  opposite  extremities 
of  Paris,  to  very  vague  addresses  given  to  him  by  com- 
rades, to  a  great  manufactory  of  animal  black  at  Auber- 
villiers,  where  he  was  made  to  return  for  nothing  three 
days  in  succession. 

Oh,  the  journeys  in  the  rain,  in  the  frost,  the  closed 
doors,  the  master  who  is  out  or  engaged,  the  promises 
given  and  immediately  withdrawn,  the  hopes  deceived,  the 
enervation  of  hours  of  waiting,  the  humiliations  reserved 
for  every  man  who  asks  for  work,  as  though  it  were  a 
shameful  thing  to  lack  it.  M.  Joyeuse  knew  all  these  mel- 
ancholy things  and,  too,  the  good  will  that  tires  and  grows 
discouraged  before  the  persistence  of  evil  fortune.  And 
you  may  imagine  how  the  hard  martyrdom  of  "  the  man 
who  seeks  a  place  "  was  rendered  tenfold  more  bitter  by 
the  mirages  of  his  imagination,  by  those  chimeras  which 

82 


The  Joyeuse  Family- 
rose  before  him  from  the  Paris  pavements  as  over  them  he 
journeyed  along  on  foot  in  every  direction. 

For  a  month  he  was  one  of  those  woeful  puppets,  talk- 
ing in  monologue,  gesticulating  on  the  footways,  from 
whom  every  chance  collision  with  the  crowd  wrests  an  ex- 
clamation as  of  one  walking  in  his  sleep.  "  I  told  you  so," 
or  "  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  sir."  One  passes  by,  almost  one 
would  laugh,  but  one  is  seized  with  pity  before  the  uncon- 
sciousness of  those  unhappy  men  possessed  by  a  fixed  idea, 
blind  whom  the  dream  leads,  drawn  along  by  an  invisible 
leash.  The  terrible  thing  was  that  after  those  long,  cruel 
days  of  inaction  and  fatigue,  when  M.  Joyeuse  returned 
home,  he  had  perforce  to  play  the  comedy  of  the  man  re- 
turning from  his  work,  to  recount  the  incidents  of  the  day, 
the  things  he  had  heard,  the  gossip  of  the  office  with  which 
he  had  been  always  wont  to  entertain  his  girls. 

In  humble  homes  there  is  always  a  name  which  comes 
up  more  often  than  all  others,  which  is  invoked  in  days  of 
stress,  which  is  mingled  with  every  wish,  with  every  hope, 
even  with  the  games  of  the  children,  penetrated  as  they  are 
with  its  importance,  a  name  which  sustains  in  the  dwelling 
the  part  of  a  sub-Providence,  or  rather  of  a  household 
divinity,  familiar  and  supernatural.  In  the  Joyeuse  family, 
it  was  Hemerlingue,  always  Hemerlingue,  returning  ten 
times,  twenty  times  a  day  in  the  conversation  of  the  girls, 
who  associated  it  with  all  their  plans,  with  the  most  inti- 
mate details  of  their  feminine  ambitions.    "  If  Hemerlingue 

would  only "      "  All  that  depends  on   Hemerlingue." 

And  nothing  could  be  more  charming  than  the  familiarity 
with  which  these  young  people  spoke  of  that  enormously 
wealthy  man  whom  tJiey  had  never  seen. 

They  would  ask  for  news  of  him.  Had  their  father 
spoken  to  him?  Was  he  in  a  good  temper?  And  to  think 
that  we  all  of  us,  whatever  our  position,  however  humble 
we  be,  however  weighed  down  by  fate,  we  have  always 
beneath  us  unfortunate  beings  more  humble,  yet  more 
weighed  down,  for  whom  we  are  great,  for  whom  we  are 
as  gods,  and  in  our  quality  of  gods,  indifferent,  disdainful, 
or  cruel. 

83 


The  Nabob 

One  imagines  the  torture  of  M.  Joyeuse,  obliged  to 
invent  stories  and  anecdotes  about  the  wretch  who  had  so 
ruthlessly  discharged  him  after  ten  years  of  good  service. 
He  played  his  little  comedy,  however,  so  well  as  com- 
pletely to  deceive  everybody.  Only  one  thing  had  been 
remarked,  and  that  was  that  father  when  he  came  home  in 
the  evening  always  sat  down  to  table  with  a  great  appe- 
tite. I  believe  it!  Since  he  lost  his  place  the  poor  man 
had  gone  without  his  luncheon.  , 

The  days  passed.  M.  Joyeuse  found  nothing.  Yes,  one 
place  as  accountant  in  the  Territorial  Bank,  which  he  re- 
fused, however,  knowing  too  much  about  banking  opera- 
tions, about  all  the  corners  and  innermost  recesses  of  the 
financial  Bohemia  in  general,  and  of  the  Territorial  Bank 
in  particular,  to  set  foot  in  that  den. 

"  But,"  said  Passajon  to  him — for  it  was  Passajon  who, 
meeting  the  honest  fellow  and  hearing  that  he  was  out  of 
employment,  had  suggested  to  him  that  he  should  come 
to  Paganetti's — "  but  since  I  repeat  that  it  is  serious.  We 
have  lots  of  money.  They  pay  one.  I  have  been  paid. 
See  how  prosperous  I  look." 

In  effect,  the  old  office  porter  had  a  new  livery,  and 
beneath  his  tunic  with  its  buttons  of  silver-gilt  his  paunch 
protruded,  majestic.  All  the  same  M.  Joyeuse  had  not  al- 
lowed himself  to  be  tempted,  even  after  Passajon,  opening 
wide  his  shallow-set  blue  eyes,  had  whispered  into  his  ear 
with  emphasis  these  words  rich  in  promises: 

"  The  Nabob  is  in  the  concern." 

Even  after  that,  M.  Joyeuse  had  had  the  courage  to 
say  No.  Was  it  not  better  to  die  of  hunger  than  to  enter 
a  fraudulent  house  of  which  he  might  perhaps  one  day  be 
summoned  to  report  upon  the  books  in  the  courts? 

So  he  continued  to  wander ;  but,  discouraged,  he  no 
longer  sought  employ.  As  it  was  necessary  that  he  should 
absent  himself  from  home,  he  used  to  linger  over  the  stalls 
on  the  quays,  lean  for  hours  on  the  parapets,  watch  the 
water  flow  and  the  unladening  of  the  vessels.  He  became 
one  of  those  idlers  whom  one  sees  in  the  first  rank  when- 
ever a  crowd  collects  in  the  street,  taking  shelter  from 

84 


The  Joyeuse  Family 

the  rain  under  porches,  warming-  himself  at  the  stoves 
where,  in  the  open  air,  the  tar  of  the  asphalters  reeks,  sink- 
ing on  a  bench  of  some  boulevard  when  his  legs  could 
no  longer  carry  him. 

To  do  nothing!  What  a  fine  way  of  making  life  seem 
longer ! 

On  certain  days,  however,  when  M.  Joyeuse  was  too 
weary  or  the  sky  too  unkind,  he  would  wait  at  the  end  of 
the  street  until  his  daughters  should  have  closed  their  win- 
dow again  and,  returning  to  the  house,  keeping  close  to 
the  walls,  would  mount  the  staircase  very  quickly,  pass  be- 
fore his  own  door  holding  his  breath,  and  take  refuge  in 
the  apartment  of  the  photographer  Andre  Maranne,  who, 
aware  of  his  ill-fortune,  always  gave  him  that  kindly  wel- 
come which  the  poor  have  for  each  other.  Clients  are  rare 
so  near  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  He  used  to  remain  long 
hours  in  the  studio,  talking  in  a  very  low  voice,  reading  at 
his  friend's  side,  listening  to  the  rain  on  the  window-panes 
or  the  wind  that  blew  as  it  does  on  the  open  sea,  shaking 
the  old  doors  and  the  window-sashes  below  in  the  wood- 
sheds. Beneath  him  he  could  hear  sounds  well  known  and 
full  of  charm,  songs  that  escaped  in  the  satisfaction  of  work 
accomplished,  assembled  laughter,  the  pianoforte  lesson 
being  given  by  Bonne  Maman,  the  tic-tac  of  the  metronome, 
all  the  delicious  household  stir  that  pleased  his  heart.  He 
lived  with  his  darlings,  who  certainly  never  could  have 
guessed  that  they  had  him  so  near  them. 

Once,  while  Maranne  was  out,  M.  Joyeuse  keeping  faith- 
ful watch  over  the  studio  and  its  new  apparatus,  heard  two 
little  strokes  given  on  the  ceiling  of  the  apartment  below, 
two  separate,  very  distinct  strokes,  then  a  cautious  pattering 
of  fingers,  like  the  scamper  of  mice.  The  friendliness  of 
the  photographer  with  his  neighbours  sufficiently  author- 
ized these  communications  like  those  of  prisoners.  But 
what  did  they  mean?  How  reply  to  what  seemed  a  call? 
Quite  at  hazard,  he  repeated  the  two  strokes,  the  light  tap- 
ping, and  the  conversation  ended  there.  On  the  return  of 
Andre  Maranne  he  learned  the  explanation  of  the  incident. 
It  was  very  simple.    Sometimes,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  the 

85 


The  Nabob 

young  ladies  below,  who  only  saw  their  neighbour  in  the 
evening,  would  inquire  how  things  were  going  with  him, 
whether  any  clients  were  coming  in.  The  signal  he  had 
heard  meant,  "Is  business  good  to-day?"  And  M.  Joy- 
euse  had  replied,  obeying  only  an  instinct  without  any 
knowledge,  "  Fairly  well  for  the  season."  Although  young 
Maranne  was  very  red  as  he  made  this  affirmation,  M. 
Joyeuse  accepted  his  word  at  once.  Only  this  idea  of  fre- 
quent communications  between  the  two  households  made 
him  afraid  for  the  secrecy  of  his  position,  and  from  that 
time  forward  he  cut  himself  ofif  from  what  he  used  to  call 
his  *'  artistic  days."  Moreover,  the  moment  was  approaching 
when  he  would  no  longer  be  able  to  conceal  his  misfortune, 
the  end  of  the  month  arriving,  complicated  by  the  ending  of 
the  year. 

Paris  was  already  assuming  the  holiday  appearance 
which  it  wears  during  the  last  weeks  of  December.  In  the 
way  of  national  or  popular  rejoicing  it  has  little  left  but 
that.  The  follies  of  the  Carnival  died  with  Gavarni,  the 
religious  festivals  with  their  peals  of  bells  which  one  scarce- 
ly hears  amid  the  noise  of  the  streets  confine  themselves 
within  their  heavy  church-doors,  the  15th  of  August  has 
never  been  anything  but  the  Saint  Charles-the-Great  of 
the  barracks ;  but  Paris  has  maintained  its  observance  of 
New  Year's  Day. 

From  the  beginning  of  December  an  immense  childish- 
ness begins  to  permeate  the  town.  You  see  hand-carts 
pass  laden  with  gilded  drums,  wooden  horses,  playthings 
by  the  dozen.  In  the  industrial  quarters,  from  top  to  bot- 
tom of  the  five-storied  houses,  the  old  private  residences 
still  standing  in  that  low-lying  district,  where  the  ware- 
houses have  such  lofty  ceilings  and  majestic  double  doors, 
the  nights  are  passed  in  the  making  up  of  gauze  flowers 
and  spangles,  in  the  gumming  of  labels  upon  satin-lined 
boxes,  in  sorting,  marking,  packing,  the  thousand  details 
of  the  toy,  that  great  branch  of  commerce  on  which  Paris 
places  the  seal  of  its  elegance.  There  is  a  smell  about  of 
new  wood,  of  fresh  paint,  glossy  varnish,  and,  in  the  dust 
of  garrets,  on  the  wretched  stairways  where  the  poor  leave 

86 


The  Joyeuse  Family 

behind  them  all  the  dirt  through  which  they  have  passed, 
there  lie  shavings  of  rosewood,  scraps  of  satin  and  velvet, 
bits  of  tinsel,  all  the  debris  of  the  luxury  whose  end  is  to 
dazzle  the  eyes  of  children.  Then  the  shop-windows  are 
decorated.  Behind  the  panes  of  clear  glass  the  gilt  of 
presentation-books  rises  like  a  glittering  wave  under  the 
gaslight,  the  stuffs  of  various  and  tempting  colours  display 
their  brittle  and  heavy  folds,  while  the  young  ladies  behind 
the  counter,  with  their  hair  dressed  tapering  to  a  point  and 
with  a  ribbon  beneath  their  collar,  tie  up  the  article,  little 
finger  in  air,  or  fill  bags  of  moire  into  which  the  sweets  fall 
like  a  rain  of  pearls. 

But,  over  against  this  kind  of  well-to-do  business,  estab- 
lished in  its  own  house,  w^armed,  withdrawn  behind  its  rich 
shop-front,  there  is  installed  the  improvised  commerce  of 
those  wooden  huts,  open  to  the  wind  of  the  streets,  of  which 
the  double  row  gives  to  the  boulevards  the  aspect  of  some 
foreign  mall.  It  is  in  these  that  you  find  the  true  interest  and 
the  poetry  of  New  Year's  gifts.  Sumptuous  in  the  district 
of  the  Madeleine,  well-to-do  towards  the  Boulevard  Saint- 
Denis,  of  more  "  popular "  order  as  you  ascend  to  the 
Bastille,  these  little  sheds  adapt  themselves  according  to 
their  public,  calculate  their  chances  of  success  by  the  more 
or  less  well-lined  purses  of  the  passers-by.  Among  these, 
there  are  set  up  portable  tables,  laden  with  trifling  objects, 
miracles  of  the  Parisian  trade  that  deals  in  such  small 
things,  constructed  out  of  nothing,  frail  and  delicate,  and 
which  the  wind  of  fashion  sometimes  sweeps  forward  in 
its  great  rush  by  reason  of  their  very  triviality.  Finally, 
along  the  curbs  of  the  footways,  lost  in  the  defile  of  the 
carriage  tralific  which  grazes  their  wandering  path,  the 
orange-girls  complete  this  peripatetic  commerce,  heaping 
up  the  sun-coloured  fruit  beneath  their  lanterns  of  red 
paper,  crying  "  La  Valence  "  amid  the  fog,  the  tumult,  the 
excessive  haste  which  Paris  displays  at  the  ending  of  its 
year. 

Ordinarily,  M.  Joyeuse  was  accustomed  to  make  one  of 
the  busy  crowd  which  goes  and  comes  with  the  jingle  of 
money  in  its  pocket  and  parcels  in  every  hand.    He  would 

87 


The  Nabob 

wander  about  with  Bonne  Maman  at  his  side  on  the  lookout 
for  New  Year's  presents  for  his  girls,  stop  before  the  booths 
of  the  small  dealers,  who  are  unaccustomed  to  do  much 
business  and  excited  by  the  appearance  of  the  least  impor- 
tant customer,  have  based  upon  this  short  season  hopes  of 
extraordinary  profits.  And  there  would  be  colloquies,  re- 
flections, an  interminable  perplexity  to  know  what  to  select 
in  that  little  complex  brain  of  his,  always  ahead  of  the  pres- 
ent instant  and  of  the  occupation  of  the  moment. 

This  year,  alas!  nothing  of  that  kind.  He  wandered 
sadly  through  the  town  in  its  rejoicing,  time  seeming  to 
hang  all  the  heavier  for  the  activity  around  him,  jostled, 
hustled,  as  all  are  who  stand  obstructing  the  way  of  active 
folk,  his  heart  beating  with  a  perpetual  fear,  for  Bonne 
Maman  for  some  days  past,  in  conversation  with  him  at 
table,  had  been  making  significant  allusions  with  regard  to 
the  New  Year's  presents.  Consequently  he  avoided  finding 
himself  alone  with  her  and  had  forbidden  her  to  come  to 
meet  him  at  the  office  at  closing-time.  But  in  spite  of  all 
his  efforts  he  knew  the  moment  was  drawing  near  when 
concealment  would  be  impossible  and  his  grievous  secret 
be  unveiled.  Was,  then,  a  very  formidable  person,  Bonne 
Maman,  that  M.  Joyeuse  should  stand  in  such  fear  of  her? 
By  no  means.  A  little  stern,  that  was  all,  with  a  pretty 
smile  that  instantly  forgave  one.  But  M.  Joyeuse  was  a 
coward,  timid  from  his  birth ;  twenty  years  of  housekeep- 
ing with  a  masterful  wife,  "  a  member  of  the  nobility,"  hav- 
ing made  him  a  slave  for  ever,  like  those  convicts  who,  after 
their  imprisonment  is  over,  have  to  undergo  a  period  of  sur- 
veillance.    And  for  him  this  meant  all  his  life. 

One  evening  the  Joyeuse  family  was  gathered  in  the 
little  drawing-room,  last  relic  of  its  splendour,  still  contain- 
ing two  upholstered  chairs,  many  crochet  decorations,  a 
piano,  two  lamps  crowned  with  little  green  shades,  and  a 
what-not  covered  with  bric-a-brac. 

True  family  life  exists  in  humble  homes. 

For  the  sake  of  economy,  there  was  lighted  for  the 
whole  household  but  one  fire  and  a  single  lamp,  around 
which    the    occupations    and    amusements    of    all    were 

88 


The  Joyeuse  Family 

grouped.  A  fine  big  family  lamp,  whose  old  painted  shade 
— night  scenes  pierced  with  shining  dots — had  been  the  as- 
tonishment and  the  joy  of  every  one  of  those  young  girls 
in  her  early  childhood.  Issuing  softly  from  the  shadow  of 
the  room,  four  young  heads  were  bent  forward,  fair  or 
dark,  smiling  or  intent,  into  that  intimate  and  warm  circle 
of  light  which  illumined  them  as  far  as  the  eyes,  seemed 
to  feed  the  fire  of  their  glance,  to  shelter  them,  protect  them, 
preserve  them  from  the  black  cold  blowing  outside,  from 
phantoms,  from  snares,  from  miseries  and  terrors,  from  all 
the  sinister  things  that  a  winter  night  in  Paris  brings  forth 
in  the  remoteness  of  its  quiet  suburbs. 

Thus,  drawn  close  together  in  a  small  room  at  the  top 
of  the  lonely  house,  in  the  warmth,  the  security  of  their  com- 
fortable home,  the  Joyeuse  household  seems  like  a  nest  right 
at  the  top  of  a  lofty  tree.  The  girls  sew,  read,  chat  a  little. 
A  leap  of  the  lamp-flame,  a  crackling  of  fire,  is  what  you  may 
hear,  with  from  time  to  time  an  exclamation  from  M.  Joy- 
euse, a  little  removed  from  his  small  circle,  lost  in  the  shadow 
where  he  hides  his  anxious  brow  and  all  the  extravagance  of 
his  imagination.  Just  now  he  is  imagining  that  in  the  dis- 
tress into  which  he  finds  himself  driven  beyond  possibility  of 
escape,  in  that  absolute  necessity  of  confessing  everything  to 
his  children,  this  evening,  at  latest  to-morrow,  an  unhoped- 
for succour  may  come  to  him.  Hemerlingue,  seized  with 
remorse,  sends  to  him,  as  to  all  those  who  took  part  in  the 
work  connected  with  the  Tunis  loan,  his  December  gratuity. 
A  tall  footman  brings  it :  "  On  behalf  of  M.  le  Baron."  The 
visionary  says  those  words  aloud.  The  pretty  faces  turn 
towards  him;  the  girls  laugh,  move  their  chairs,  and  the 
poor  fellow  awakes  suddenly  to  reality. 

Oh,  how  angry  he  is  with  himself  now  for  his  delay 
in  confessing  all,  for  that  false  security  which  he  has 
maintained  around  him  and  which  he  will  have  to  destroy 
at  a  blow.  What  need  had  he,  too,  to  criticise  that  Tunis 
loan?  At  this  moment  he  even  reproaches  himself  for  not 
having  accepted  a  place  in  the  Territorial  Bank.  Had  he 
the  right  to  refuse?  Ah,  the  sorry  head  of  a  family,  with- 
out strength  to  keep  or  to  defend  the  happiness  of  his  own  I 

89 


The  Nabob 

And,  glancing  at  the  pretty  group  within  the  circle  of 
the  lamp-shade,  whose  reposeful  aspect  forms  so  great  a 
contrast  with  his  own  internal  agitation,  he  is  seized  by 
a  remorse  so  violent  for  the  weakness  of  his  soul  that  his 
secret  rises  to  his  lips,  is  about  to  escape  him  in  a  burst  of 
sobs,  when  the  ring  of  a  bell — no  chimera,  that — gives 
them  all  a  start  and  arrests  him  at  the  very  moment  when 
he  was  about  to  speak. 

Whoever  could  it  be,  coming  at  this  hour?  They  had 
lived  in  retirement  since  the  mother's  death  and  saw  almost 
nobody.  Andre  Maranne,  when  he  came  down  to  spend 
a  few  minutes  with  them,  tapped  like  a  familiar  friend.  Pro- 
found silence  in  the  drawing-room,  long  colloquy  on  the 
landing.  Finally,  the  old  servant — she  had  been  in  the  fam- 
ily as  long  as  the  lamp — showed  in  a  young  man,  a  complete 
stranger,  who  stopped,  struck  with  admiration  at  the  charm- 
ing picture  of  the  four  darlings  gathered  round  the  table. 
This  made  his  entrance  timid,  rather  awkward.  However, 
he  explained  clearly  the  object  of  his  visit.  He  had  been 
referred  to  M.  Joyeuse  by  an  honest  fellow  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, old  Passajon,  to  take  lessons  in  bookkeeping.  One 
of  his  friends  happened  to  be  engaged  in  large  financial 
transactions  in  connection  with  an  important  joint-stock 
company.  He  wished  to  be  of  service  to  him  in  keeping  an 
eye  on  the  employment  of  the  capital,  the  straightfonvard- 
ness  of  the  operations ;  but  he  was  a  lawyer,  little  familiar 
with  financial  methods,  with  the  terms  employed  in  banking. 
Could  not  M.  Joyeuse  in  the  course  of  a  few  months,  with 
three  or  four  lessons  a  week 

"  Yes,  indeed,  sir,  yes,  indeed,"  stammered  the  father, 
quite  overcome  by  this  unlooked-for  piece  of  good  luck. 
"Assuredly  I  can  undertake,  in  a  few  months,  to  qualify 
you  for  such  auditing  work.  Where  shall  we  have  our 
lessons?  " 

"  Here,  at  your  own  house,  if  you  are  agreeable,"  said 
the  young  man,  "  for  I  am  anxious  that  no  one  should 
know  that  I  am  working  at  the  subject.  But  I  shall  be 
grieved  if  I  always  frighten  everybody  away  as  I  have  this 
evening." 

QO 


The  Joyeuse  Family 

For,  at  the  first  words  of  the  visitor,  the  four  curly 
heads  had  disappeared,  with  Httle  whisperings,  and  with 
rusthngs  of  skirts,  and  the  drawing-room  looked  very  bare 
now  that  the  big  circle  of  white  light  was  empty. 

Always  quick  to  take  offence,  where  his  daughters  were 
concerned,  M.  Joyeuse  replied  that  "  the  young  girls  were 
accustomed  to  retire  early  every  evening,"  and  the  words 
were  spoken  in  a  brief,  dry  tone  which  very  clearly  signified : 
"  Let  us  talk  of  our  lessons,  young  man,  if  you  please." 
Days  were  then  fixed,  free  hours  in  the  evening. 

As  for  the  terms,  they  would  be  whatever  monsieur 
desired. 

Monsieur  mentioned  a  sum. 

The  accountant  became  quite  red.  It  was  the  amount  he 
used  to  earn  at  Hemerlingue's. 

"  Oh,  no,  that  is  too  much." 

But  the  other  was  no  longer  listening.  He  was  seeking 
for  words,  as  though  he  had  something  very  difficult  to  say, 
and  suddenly,  making  up  his  mind  to  it : 

"  Here  is  your  first  month's  salary." 

"  But,  monsieur " 

The  young  man  insisted.  He  was  a  stranger.  It  was 
only  fair  that  he  should  pay  in  advance.  Evidently,  Passa- 
jon  has  told  his  secret. 

M.  Joyeuse  understood,  and  in  a  low  voice  said, 
"  Thank  you,  oh,  thank  you,"  so  deeply  moved  that  words 
failed  him.  Life !  it  meant  life,  several  months  of  life,  the 
time  to  turn  round,  to  find  another  place.  His  darlings 
would  want  for  nothing.  They  would  have  their  New 
Year's  presents.    Oh,  the  mercy  of  Providence ! 

"  Till  Wednesday,  then,  M.  Joyeuse." 

"  Till  Wednesday,  monsieur " 

"  De  Gery— Paul  de  Gery." 

And  they  separated,  both  delighted,  fascinated,  the  one 
by  the  apparition  of  this  unexpected  saviour,  the  other  by 
the  adorable  picture  of  which  he  had  only  a  glimpse,  all 
those  young  girls  grouped  round  the  table  covered  with 
books,  exercise-books,  and  skeins  of  wool,  with  an  air  of 
purity,  of  industrious  honesty.     This  was  a  new  Paris  for 

91 


The  Nabob 

Paul  de  Gery,  a  courageous,  home-like  Paris,  very  different 
from  that  which  he  already  knew,  a  Paris  of  which  the 
writers  of  stories  in  the  newspapers  and  the  reporters  never 
speak,  and  which  recalled  to  him  his  own  country  home, 
with  an  additional  charm,  that  charm  which  the  struggle 
and  tumult  around  lend  to  the  tranquil,  secured  refuge. 


92 


VI 

FELICIA   RUYS 

"  And  your  son,  Jenkins,  What  are  you  doing  with 
him?  Why  does  one  never  see  him  now  at  your  house? 
He  seemed  a  nice  fellow." 

As  she  spoke  in  that  tone  of  disdainful  bluntness  which 
she  almost  always  used  when  speaking  to  the  Irishman, 
Felicia  was  at  work  on  the  bust  of  the  Nabob  which  she 
had  just  commenced,  posing  her  model,  laying  down  and 
taking  up  the  boasting-tool,  quickly  wiping  her  fingers  with 
the  little  sponge,  while  the  light  and  peace  of  a  fine  Sunday 
afternoon  fell  on  the  top-light  of  the  studio.     Felicia  "  re- 
ceived "  every  Sunday,  if  to  receive  were  to  leave  her  door 
open  to  allow  people  to  come  in,  go  out,  sit  down  for  a 
moment,  without  stirring  from  her  work  or  even  interrupt- 
ing the  course  of  a  discussion  to  welcome  the  new  arrivals. 
They  were  artists,  with  refined  heads  and  luxuriant  beards ; 
here  and  there  you  might  see  among  them  white-haired 
friends  of  Ruys,  her  father;  then  there  were  society  men, 
bankers,  stock-brokers,  and  a  few  young  men  about  town, 
come  to  see  the  handsome  girl  rather  than  her  sculpture, 
in  order  to  be  able  to  say  at  the  club  in  the  evening,  "  I  was 
at  Felicia's  to-day."    Among  them  was  Paul  de  Gery,  silent, 
absorbed  in  an  admiration  which  each  day  sunk  into  his 
heart  a  little  more  deeply,  trying  to  understand  the  beautiful 
sphinx   draped   in    purple    cashmere   and   ecru   lace,   who 
worked  away  bravely  amid  her  clay,  a  burnisher's  apron 
reaching  nearly  to   her  neck,   allowing  her   small,   proud 
head  to  emerge  with  those  transparent  tones,  those  gleams 
of  veiled  radiance  of  which  the  sense,  the  inspiration  bring 
the  blood  to  the  cheek  as  they  pass.    Paul  always  remem- 
bered what  had  been  said  of  her  in  his  presence,  endeavoured 

93 


The  Nabob 

to  form  an  opinion  for  himself,  doubted,  worried  himself, 
and  was  charmed,  vowing  to  himself  each  time  that  he 
would  come  no  more  and  never  missing  a  Sunday.  A  little 
woman  with  gray,  powdered  hair  was  always  there  in  the 
same  place,  her  pink  face  like  a  pastel  somewhat  worn  by 
years,  who,  in  the  discrete  light  of  a  recess,  smiled  sweetly, 
with  her  hands  lying  idly  on  her  knees,  motionless  as  a  fakir. 
Jenkins,  amiable,  with  his  open  face,  his  black  e^es,  and  his 
apostolical  manner,  moved  on  from  one  group  to  another, 
liked  and  known  by  all.  He  did  not  miss,  either,  one  of 
Felicia's  days ;  and,  indeed,  he  showed  his  patience  in  this, 
all  the  snubs  of  his  hostess  both  as  artist  and  pretty  woman 
being  reserved  for  him  alone.  Without  appearing  to  notice 
them,  with  ever  the  same  smiling,  indulgent  serenity,  he 
continued  to  pay  his  visits  to  the  daughter  of  his  old  Ruys, 
of  the  man  whom  he  had  so  loved  and  tended  to  his  last 
moments. 

This  time,  however,  the  question  which  Felicia  had  just 
addressed  to  him  respecting  his  son  appeared  extremely  dis- 
agreeable to  him,  and  it  was  with  a  frown  and  a  real  expres- 
sion of  annoyance  that  he  replied :  "  Ma  foi !  I  know  no 
more  than  yourself  what  he  is  doing.  He  has  quite  deserted 
us.  He  was  bored  at  home.  He  cares  only  for  his  Bo- 
hemia." 

Felicia  gave  a  jump  that  made  them  all  start,  and  with 
flashing  eyes  and  nostrils  that  quivered,  said : 

"  That  is  too  absurd.  Ah,  now,  come,  Jenkins.  What 
do  you  mean  by  Bohemia?  A  charming  word,  by-the-bye, 
and  one  that  ought  to  recall  long  days  of  wandering  in  the 
sun,  halts  in  woody  nooks,  all  the  freshness  of  fruits  gathered 
by  the  open  road.  But  since  you  have  made  a  reproach  of 
the  name,  to  whom  do  you  apply  it?  To  a  few  poor  devils 
with  long  hair,  in  love  with  liberty  in  rags,  who  starve  to 
death  in  a  fifth-floor  garret,  or  seek  rhymes  under  tiles 
through  which  the  rain  filters ;  to  those  madmen,  growing 
more  and  more  rare,  who.  from  horror  of  the  customary, 
the  traditional,  the  stupidity  of  life,  have  put  their  feet  to- 
gether and  made  a  jump  into  freedom?  Come,  that  is  too 
old  a  story.    It  is  the  Bohemia  of  Murger,  with  the  work- 

94 


Felicia  Ruys 


house  at  the  end,  terror  of  children,  boon  of  parents,  Red 
Riding-Hood  eaten  by  the  wolf.  It  was  worn  out  a  long 
time  ago,  that  story.  Nowadays,  you  know  well  that  artists 
are  the  most  regular  people  in  their  habits  on  earth,  that 
they  earn  money,  pay  their  debts,  and  contrive  to  look  like 
the  first  man  you  may  meet  on  the  street.  The  true  Bohe- 
mians exist,  however ;  they  are  the  backbone  of  our  society ; 
but  it  is  in  your  own  world  especially  that  they  are  to  be 
found,  Parblcu!  They  bear  no  external  stamp  and  nobody 
distrusts  them ;  but,  so  far  as  uncertainty,  want  of  substan- 
tial foundation  in  their  lives  is  concerned,  they  have  noth- 
ing to  wish  for  from  those  whom  they  call  so  disdainfully 
*  irregulars.'  Ah !  if  we  knew  how  much  turpitude,  what 
fantastic  or  abominable  stories,  a  black  evening-coat,  the 
most  correct  of  your  hideous  modern  garments,  can  mask. 
Why,  see,  Jenkins,  the  other  evening  at  your  house  I  was 
amusing  myself  by  counting  them — all  these  society  adven- 
turers  " 

The  little  old  lady,  pink  and  powdered,  put  in  gently 
from  her  place  : 

"  Felicia,  take  care !  " 

But  she  continued,  without  listening: 

"  What  do  you  call  Monpavon,  doctor  ?  And  Bois 
I'Hery?  And  de  Mora  himself?  And — "  She  was  going 
to  say  "  and  the  Nabob  ?  "  but  stopped  herself. 

"And  how  many  others!  Oh,  truly,  you  may  well 
speak  of  Bohemia  with  contempt.  But  your  fashionable 
doctor's  clientele,  oh,  sublime  Jenkins,  consists  of  that  very 
thing  alone.  The  Bohemia  of  commerce,  of  finance,  of  poli- 
tics; unclassed  people,  shady  people  of  all  castes,  and  the 
higher  one  ascends  the  more  you  find  of  them,  because 
rank  gives  impunity  and  wealth  can  pay  for  rude  silence." 

She  spoke  with  a  hard  tone,  greatly  excited,  with  lip 
curled  by  a  savage  disdain.  The  doctor  forced  a  laugh  and 
assumed  a  light,  condescending  tone,  repeating:  "Ah, 
feather-brain,  feather-brain !  "  And  his  glance,  anxious  and 
beseeching,  sought  the  Nabob,  as  though  to  demand  his 
pardon  for  all  these  paradoxical  impertinences. 

But  Jansoulet,  far  from  appearing  vexed,  was  so  proud 

95 


The  Nabob 

of  posing  to  this  handsome  artist,  so  appreciative  of  the 
honour  that  was  being  done  him,  that  he  nodded  his  head 
approvingly. 

"  She  is  right,  Jenkins,"  said  he  at  last,  **  she  is  right. 
It  is  we  who  are  the  true  Bohemia.  Take  me,  for  example ; 
take  Hemerlingue,  two  of  the  men  who  handle  the  most 
money  in  Paris.  When  I  think  of  the  point  from  which  we 
started,  of  all  the  trades  through  which  we  have  made  our 
way.  Hemerlingue,  once  keeper  of  a  regimental  canteen. 
I,  who  have  carried  sacks  of  wheat  in  the  docks  of  Mar- 
seilles for  my  living.  And  the  strokes  of  luck  by  which  our 
fortunes  have  been  built  up — as  all  fortunes,  moreover,  in 
these  times  are  built  up.  Go  to  the  Bourse  between  three 
and  five.  But,  pardon,  mademoiselle,  see,  through  my  ab- 
surd habit  of  gesticulating  when  I  speak,  I  have  lost  the 
pose.    Come,  is  this  right  ?  " 

"  It  is  useless,"  said  Felicia,  throwing  down  her  boast- 
ing-tool with  the  gesture  of  a  spoilt  child.  "  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  do  any  more  to-day." 

She  was  a  strange  girl,  this  Felicia.  A  true  daughter 
of  an  artist,  of  a  genial  and  dissolute  artist,  thoroughly  in 
the  romantic  tradition,  as  was  Sebastien  Ruys.  She  had 
never  known  her  mother.  She  was  the  fruit  of  one  of  those 
transient  loves  which  used  to  enter  suddenly  into  the  bache- 
lor life  of  the  sculptor  like  swallows  into  a  dovecote  of 
which  the  door  is  always  open,  and  who  leave  it  again 
because  no  nest  can  be  built  there. 

This  time,  the  lady,  ere  she  flew  away,  had  left  to  the 
great  artist,  then  about  forty  years  of  age,  a  beautiful  child 
whom  he  had  brought  up,  and  who  became  the  joy  and 
the  passion  of  his  life.  Until  she  was  thirteen,  Felicia  had 
lived  in  her  father's  house,  introducing  a  childish  and  tender 
note  into  that  studio  full  of  idlers,  models,  and  huge  grey- 
hounds lying  at  full  length  on  the  couches.  There  was  a 
comer  reserved  for  her,  for  her  attempts  at  sculpture,  a 
whole  miniature  equipment,  a  tripod,  wax,  etc.,  and  old 
Ruys  would  cry  to  those  who  entered : 

"  Don't  go  there.  Don't  move  anything.  That  is  the 
little  one's  corner." 

96 


Felicia  Ruys 


So  it  came  about  that  at  ten  years  old  she  scarcely  knew 
how  to  read  and  could  handle  the  boasting-tool  with  mar- 
vellous skill.  Ruys  would  have  liked  to  keep  always  with 
him  this  child  whom  he  never  felt  to  be  in  the  way,  a 
member  of  the  great  brotherhood  from  her  earliest  years. 
But  it  was  pitiful  to  see  the  little  girl  amid  the  free  be- 
haviour of  the  frequenters  of  the  house,  the  constant  going 
and  coming  of  the  models,  the  discussions  of  an  art,  so  to 
speak,  entirely  physical,  and  even  at  the  noisy  Sunday  din- 
ner-parties, sitting  among  five  or  six  women,  to  all  of  whom 
her  father  spoke  familiarly.  There  were  actresses,  dancers 
or  singers,  who,  after  dinner,  would  settle  themselves  down 
to  smoke  with  their  elbows  on  the  table  absorbed  in  the 
indecent  stories  so  keenly  relished  by  their  host.  For- 
tunately, childhood  is  protected  by  a  resisting  candour,  by 
an  enamel  over  which  all  impurities  glide.  Felicia  became 
noisy,  turbulent,  ill-behaved,  but  without  being  touched 
by  all  that  passed  over  her  little  soul  so  near  to  earth. 

Every  year,  in  the  summer,  she  used  to  go  to  stay  for  a 
few  days  with  her  godmother,  Constance  Crenmitz,  the 
elder  Crenmitz,  whom  all  Europe  had  called  for  so  long 
"  the  famous  dancer,"  and  who  lived  in  peaceful  retirement 
at  Fontainebleau. 

The  arrival  of  the  "  little  demon  "  used  to  bring  into 
the  life  of  the  old  dancer  an  element  of  disturbance  from 
which  she  had  afterward  all  the  year  to  recover.  The  frights 
which  the  child  caused  her  by  her  daring  in  climbing,  in 
jumping,  in  riding,  all  the  passionate  transports  of  her  wild 
nature  made  this  visit  for  her  at  once  delicious  and  terrible; 
delicious,  for  she  adored  Felicia,  the  one  family  tie  that  re- 
mained to  this  poor  old  salamander  in  retirement  after  thirty 
years  of  fluttering  in  the  glare  of  the  footlights;  terrible, 
for  the  demon  used  to  upset  without  pity  the  dancer's  house, 
decorated,  carefully  ordered,  perfumed,  like  her  dressing- 
room  at  the  opera,  and  adorned  with  a  museum  of  souvenirs 
dated  from  every  stage  in  the  world. 

Constance  Crenmitz  was  the  one  feminine  element  in 
Felicia's  childhood.  Futile,  limited  in  mind,  she  had  at  least 
a  coquettish  taste,  agile  fingers  that  knew  how  to  sew,  to 

97 


The  Nabob 

embroider,  to  arrange  things,  to  leave  in  every  corner  of 
the  room  their  dainty  and  individual  trace.  She  alone  un- 
dertook to  train  up  the  wild  young  plant,  and  to  awaken 
with  discretion  the  woman  in  this  strange  being  on  whom 
cloaks,  furs,  everything  elegant  devised  by  fashion,  seemed 
to  take  odd  folds  or  look  curiously  awkward. 

It  was  the  dancer  again — in  what  neglect  must  she  not 
have  lived,  this  little  Ruys — who,  triumphing  over  the  pa- 
ternal selfishness,  insisted  upon  a  necessary  separation,  when 
Felicia  was  twelve  or  thirteen  years  old ;  and  she  took  also 
the  responsibility  of  finding  a  suitabJe  school,  a  school  which 
she  selected  of  deliberate  purpose,  very  comfortable  and 
very  respectable,  right  at  the  upper  end  of  an  airy  road,  occu- 
pying a  roomy,  old-world  building  surrounded  by  high 
walls,  big  trees,  a  sort  of  convent  without  its  constraint  and 
contempt  of  serious  studies. 

Much  work,  on  the  contrary,  was  done  in  Mme.  Belin's 
institution,  where  the  pupils  went  out  only  on  the  prin- 
cipal holidays  and  had  no  communication  with  outside  ex- 
cept the  visits  of  relatives  on  Thursdays,  in  a  little  garden 
planted  with  flowering  shrubs  or  in  the  immense  parlour 
with  carved  and  gilded  work  over  its  doors.  The  first 
entry  of  Felicia  into  this  almost  monastic  house  caused 
indeed  a  certain  sensation ;  her  dresses  chosen  by  the  Aus- 
trian dancer,  her  hair  curling  to  her  waist,  her  gait  free 
and  easy  like  a  boy's,  aroused  some  hostility,  but  she  was  a 
Parisian  and  could  adapt  herself  quickly  to  every  situation 
and  to  all  surroundings.  A  few  days  later,  she  looked  better 
than  any  one  in  the  little  black  apron,  to  which  the  more 
coquettish  were  wont  to  hang  their  watches,  the  straight  skirt 
— a  severe  and  hard  prescription  at  that  period  when  fash- 
ion expanded  women's  figures  with  an  infinity  of  flounces 
— the  regulation  coififure,  two  plaits  tied  rather  low,  at  the 
neck,  after  the  manner  of  the  Roman  peasants. 

Strange  to  say,  the  regularity  of  the  classes,  their  calm 
exactitude,  suited  Felicia's  nature,  intelligent  and  quick,  in 
which  the  taste  for  study  was  relieved  by  a  juvenile  expan- 
sion at  ease  in  the  noisy  good-humour  of  playtime.  She 
was  popular.    Among  those  daughters  of  wealthy  business- 

98 


Felicia  Ruys 


men,  of  Parisian  lawyers  or  of  gentlemen-farmers,  a  respect- 
able and  rather  affectedly  serious  world,  the  well-known 
name  of  old  Ruys,  the  respect  with  which  at  Paris  an 
artist's  reputation  is  surrounded,  created  for  Felicia  a 
greatly  envied  position,  rendered  more  brilliant  still  by  her 
successes  in  the  school-work,  a  genuine  talent  for  drawing, 
and  her  beauty,  that  superiority  which  asserts  its  power 
even  among  young  girls.  In  the  wholesome  atmosphere 
of  the  boarding-school,  she  was  conscious  of  an  extreme 
pleasure  as  she  grew  feminized,  in  resuming  her  sex,  in 
learning  to  know  order,  regularity,  otherwise  than  these 
were  taught  by  that  amiable  dancer  whose  kisses  seemed 
always  to  keep  the  taste  of  paint  and  her  embraces  some- 
what artificial  in  the  curving  of  her  arms,  Ruys,  her  father, 
was  enraptured  each  time  that  he  came  to  see  his  daughter, 
to  find  her  more  grown,  womanly,  knowing  how  to  enter, 
to  walk,  and  to  leave  a  room  with  that  pretty  courtesy  which 
caused  all  Mme.  Belin's  pupils  to  long  for  the  trailing  rustle 
of  a  long  skirt. 

At  first  he  came  often,  then,  as  he  had  not  time  enough 
for  all  his  commissions,  accepted  and  undertaken,  the  ad- 
vances on  which  went  to  pay  for  the  scrapes,  the  pleas- 
iires  of  his  existence,  he  was  seen  more  seldom  in  the 
parlour.  Finally,  sickness  intervened.  Stricken  by  an  in- 
curable anaemia,  he  would  remain  for  weeks  without  leav- 
ing his  house,  without  doing  any  .work.  Thereupon  he 
wished  to  have  his  daughter  with  him  again;  and  from  the 
boarding-school,  sheltered  by  so  healthy  a  tranquility,  Fe- 
licia returned  once  more  to  her  father's  studio,  haunted  still 
by  the  same  boon  companions,  the  parasites  which  swarm 
around  every  celebrity,  into  the  midst  of  which  sickness  had 
introduced  a  new  personage.  Dr.  Jenkins. 

His  fine  open  countenance,  the  air  of  candour,  of  seren- 
ity that  seemed  to  dwell  about  the  person  of  this  physician, 
already  famous,  who  was  wont  to  speak  of  his  art  so  care- 
lessly and  yet  seemed  to  work  miraculous  cures,  the  care 
with  which  he  surrounded  her  father,  these  things  made  a 
great  impression  on  the  young  girl.  Jenkins  became  imme- 
diately her  friend,  confidant,  a  vigilant  and  kind  guardian. 

99-  Vol.  18— F 


The  Nabob 

Occasionally,  when,  in  the  studio,  somebody — her  father 
most  likely  of  all — uttered  a  risky  jest,  the  Irishman  would 
contract  his  eyebrows,  give  a  little  click  of  the  tongue,  or 
perhaps  distract  Felicia's  attention. 

He  often  used  to  take  her  to  pass  the  day  with  Mme. 
Jenkins,  endeavouring  to  prevent  her  from  becoming  again 
the  wild  young  thing  she  was  before  going  to  school,  or 
even  something  worse,  as  she  threatened  to  do  in  the  moral 
neglect,  sadder  than  all  other,  in  which  she  was  left. 

But  the  young  girl  had  as  a  protection  something  even 
better  than  the  irreproachable  and  worldly  example  of  the 
handsome  Mme.  Jenkins :  the  art  that  she  adored,  the  en- 
thusiasm which  it  implanted  in  her  nature  wholly  occupied 
with  outside  things,  the  sentiment  of  beauty,  of  truth, 
which,  from  her  thoughtful  brain,  full  of  ideas,  passed  into 
her  fingers  with  a  little  quivering  of  the  nerves,  a  desire  of 
the  idea  accomplished,  of  the  realized  image.  All  day  long 
she  would  work  at  her  sculpture,  giving  shape  to  her 
dreams  with  that  happiness  of  instinctive  youth  which  lends 
so  much  charm  to  early  work ;  this  prevented  her  from 
any  excessive  regret  for  the  austerity  of  the  Belin  institu- 
tion, sheltering  and  light  as  the  veil  of  a  novice  before  her 
vows,  and  preserved  her  also  from  dangerous  conversa- 
tions, unheard  amid  her  unique  preoccupation. 

Ruys  was  proud  of  this  talent  growing  up  at  his  side. 
Growing  every  day  feebler,  already  at  that  stage  in  which 
the  artist  regrets  himself,  he  found  in  following  Felicia's 
progress  a  certain  consolation  for  his  own  ended  career.  He 
saw  the  boasting-tool,  which  trembled  in  his  hand,  taken 
up  again  under  his  eye  with  a  virile  firmness  and  assurance, 
tempered  by  all  those  delicacies  of  her  being  which  a  wom- 
an can  apply  to  the  realization  of  an  art.  A  strange  sensa- 
tion, this  double  paternity,  this  survival  of  genius  as  it 
abandons  the  man  whose  day  is  over  to  pass  into  him  who 
is  at  his  dawn,  like  those  beautiful,  familiar  birds  which, 
on  the  eve  of  a  death,  will  desert  the  menaced  roof  to  fly 
away  to  a  less  mournful  lodging. 

During  the  last  period  of  her  father's  life,  Felicia — a 
great  artist  and  still  a  mere  child — used  to  execute  half  of 

lOO 


Felicia  Ruys 


his  works  ;  and  nothing  was  more  touching  than  this  collabo- 
ration of  father  and  daughter,  in  the  same  studio,  around 
the  same  group.  The  operation  did  not  always  proceed 
peaceably ;  although  her  father's  pupil,  Felicia  already  felt 
her  own  personality  rebel  against  any  despotic  direction. 
She  had  those  audacities  of  the  beginner,  those  intuitions  of 
the  future  which  are  the  heritage  of  young  talents,  and, 
in  opposition  to  the  romantic  traditions  of  Sebastien  Ruys, 
a  tendency  to  modern  realism,  a  need  to  plant  that  glorious 
old  flag  upon  some  new  monument. 

These  things  were  the  occasion  of  terrible  arguments, 
of  discussions  from  which  the  father  came  out  beaten,  con- 
quered by  his  daughter's  logic,  astonished  at  the  progress 
made  by  the  young,  while  the  old,  who  have  opened  the 
way  for  them,  remain  motionless  at  the  point  from  which 
they  started.  When  she  was  working  for  him,  Felicia 
would  yield  more  easily ;  but,  where  her  own  sculpture 
was  concerned  she  was  found  to  be  intractable.  Thus  the 
Joucur  de  Boiiles,  her  first  exhibited  work,  which  obtained 
so  great  a  success  at  the  Salon  of  1862,  was  the  subject  of 
violent  scenes  between  the  two  artists,  of  contradictions  so 
strong,  that  Jenkins  had  to  intervene  and  help  to  secure 
the  safety  of  the  plaster-cast  which  Ruys  had  threatened 
to  destroy. 

Apart  from  such  little  dramas,  which  in  no  way  affected 
the  tenderness  of  their  hearts,  these  two  beings  adored 
each  other  with  the  presentiment  and,  gradually,  the  cruel 
certitude  of  an  approaching  separation,  when  suddenly 
there  occurred  in  Felicia's  life  a  horrible  event.  One  day, 
Jenkins  had  taken  her  to  dine  at  his  house,  as  often  hap- 
pened. Mme.  Jenkins  was  away  on  a  couple  of  days'  visit, 
as  also  her  son ;  but  the  doctor's  age,  his  semi-paternal  in- 
timacy, allowed  him  to  have  with  him,  even  in  his  wife's 
absence,  this  young  girl  whose  fifteen  years,  the  fifteen 
years  of  an  Eastern  Jewess  glorious  in  her  precocious 
beauty,  left  her  still  near  childhood. 

The  dinner  was  very  gay,  and  Jenkins  pleasant  and 
cordial  as  usual.  Afterwards  they  went  into  the  doctor's 
study,  and  suddenly,  on  the  couch,  in  the  middle  of  an 

lOI 


The  Nabob 

intimate  and  quite  friendly  conversation  about  her  father,  his 
health,  their  work  together,  Felicia  felt  as  it  were  the  chill 
of  a  gulf  between  herself  and  this  man,  then  the  brutal 
grasp  of  a  faun.  She  beheld  an  unknown  Jenkins,  w'ild-look- 
ing,  stammering  with  a  besotted  laugh  and  outraging  hands. 
In  the  surprise,  the  unexpectedness  of  this  bestial  attack, 
any  other  than  Felicia — a  child  of  her  own  age,  really  inno- 
cent, would  have  been  lost.  As  for  her,  poor  little  thing! 
what  saved  her  was  her  knowledge.  She  had  heard  so  many 
stories  of  this  kind  of  thing  at  her  father's  table !  and  then 
art,  and  the  life  of  the  studio —  She  was  not  an  ingenue.  In  a 
moment  she  understood  the  object  of  this  grasp,  struggled, 
sprang  up,  then,  not  being  strong  enough,  cried  out.  He 
was  afraid,  released  his  hold,  and  suddenly  she  found  herself 
standing  up,  free,  with  the  man  on  his  knees  weeping  and 
begging  forgiveness.  He  had  yielded  to  a  fit  of  madness. 
She  was  so  beautiful ;  he  loved  her  so  much.  For  months  he 
had  been  struggling.  But  now  it  was  over,  never  again,  oh, 
never  again !  Not  even  would  he  so  much  as  touch  the 
hem  of  her  dress.  She  made  no  reply,  trembled,  put 
her  hair  and  her  clothes  straight  again  with  the  fingers  of 
a  woman  demented.  To  go  home — she  wished  to  go  home 
instantly,  quite  alone.  He  sent  a  servant  with  her;  and, 
quite  low,  as  she  was  getting  into  the  carriage,  whispered ; 
"  Above  all,  not  a  word.  It  would  kill  your  father." 
He  knew  her  so  well,  he  was  so  sure  of  his  power  over 
her  through  that  suggestion,  the  blackguard!  that  he  re- 
turned on  the  morrow  looking  bright  as  ever  and  with 
loyal  face  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  In  fact,  she 
never  spoke  of  the  matter  to  her  father,  nor  to  any  one. 
But,  dating  from  that  day,  a  change  came  over  her,  a  sud- 
den development,  as  it  were,  of  her  haughty  ways.  She 
was  subject  to  caprices,  wearinesses,  a  curl  of  disgust  in 
her  smile,  and  sometimes  quick  fits  of  anger  against  her 
father,  a  glance  of  contempt  which  reproached  him  for  not 
having  known  how  to  watch  over  her. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  her?"  Ruys,  her  father,  used 
to  say ;  and  Jenkins,  with  the  authority  of  a  doctor,  would 
put  it  down  to  her  age  and  some  physical  disturbance. 

102 


Felicia  Ruys 


He  avoided  speaking  to  the  girl  himself,  counting  on  time 
to  efface  the  sinister  impression,  and  not  despairing  of 
attaining  his  end,  for  he  desired  it  scill,  more  than  ever, 
prey  to  the  exasperated  love  of  a  man  of  forty-seven  to  one 
of  those  incurable  passions  of  maturity ;  and  that  was  this 
hypocrite's  punishment.  This  unusual  condition  of  his 
daughter  was  a  real  grief  to  the  sculptor ;  but  this  grief  was 
of  short  duration.  Without  warning,  Ruys  flickered  out  of 
life,  fell  to  pieces  in  a  moment,  as  was  the  way  with  all  the 
Irishman's  patients.     His  last  words  were : 

"  Jenkins,  I  beg  you  to  look  after  my  daughter." 

They  were  so  ironically  mournful  that  Jenkins  could  not 
prevent  himself  from  turning  pale. 

Felicia  was  even  more  stupefied  than  grief-stricken.  To 
the  amazement  caused  by  death,  which  she  had  never  seen 
and  which  now  came  before  her  wearing  features  so  dear, 
there  was  joined  the  sense  of  a  vast  solitude  surrounded 
by  darkness  and  perils. 

A  few  of  the  sculptor's  friends  gathered  together  as  a 
family  council  to  consider  the  future  of  this  unfortunate 
child  without  relatives  or  fortune.  Fifty  francs  had  been 
discovered  in  the  box  where  Sebastien  used  to  put  his 
money,  on  a  piece  of  the  studio  furniture  well  known  to 
its  needy  frequenters  and  visited  by  them  without  scruple. 
There  was  no  other  inheritance,  at  least  in  cash;  only  a 
quantity  of  artistic  and  curious  furniture  of  the  most  sump- 
tuous description,  a  few  valuable  pictures,  and  a  certain 
amount  of  money  owing  but  scarcely  sufflcing  to  cover 
numberless  debts.  It  was  proposed  to  organize  a  sale. 
Felicia,  when  she  was  consulted,  replied  that  she  would  not 
care  if  everything  were  sold,  but,  for  God's  sake,  let  them 
leave  her  in  peace. 

The  sale  did  not  take  place,  however,  thanks  to  the 
godmother,  the  excellent  Crenmitz,  who  suddenly  made 
her  appearance,  calm  and  gentle  as  usual. 

"  Don't  listen  to  them,  my  child.  Sell  nothing.  Your 
old  Constance  has  an  income  of  fifteen  thousand  francs, 
which  was  destined  to  come  to  you  later  on.  You  will  take 
advantage  of  it  at  once,  that  is  all.    We  will  live  here  to- 

103 


The  Nabob 

gether.  You  will  see,  I  shall  not  be  in  the  way.  You  will 
work  at  your  sculpture,  I  shall  manage  the  house.  Does 
that  suit  you  ?  " 

It  was  said  so  tenderly,  with  that  childishness  of  accent 
which  foreigners  have  when  expressing  themselves  in 
French,  that  the  girl  was  deeply  moved.  Her  heart  that 
had  seemed  turned  to  stone  opened,  a  burning  flood  came 
pouring  from  her  eyes,  and  she  rushed,  flung  herself  into 
the  arms  of  the  dancer.  "  Ah,  godmother,  how  good  you 
are  to  me !  Yes,  yes,  don't  leave  me  any  more.  Stay  with 
me  always.  Life  frightens  and  disgusts  me,  I  see  so  much 
hypocrisy  in  it,  so  much  falsehood."  And  the  old  woman 
arranged  for  herself  a  silken  and  embroidered  nest  in  this 
house  so  like  a  traveller's  camp  laden  with  treasures  from 
every  land,  and  the  suggested  dual  life  began  for  these  two 
different  natures. 

It  was  no  small  sacrifice  that  Constance  had  made  for 
the  dear  demon  in  quitting  her  Fontainebleau  retreat  for 
Paris,  which  inspired  her  with  terror.  Ever  since  the  day 
when  this  dancer,  with  her  extravagant  caprices,  who  made 
princely  fortunes  flow  and  disappear  through  her  five  open 
fingers,  had  descended  from  her  triumphant  position,  a  little 
of  its  dazzling  glitter  still  in  her  eyes,  and  had  attempted 
to  resume  an  ordinary  existence,  to  manage  her  little  in- 
come and  her  modest  household,  she  had  been  the  object 
of  a  thousand  impudent  exploitations,  of  frauds  that  were 
easy  in  view  of  the  ignorance  of  this  poor  butterfly  that 
was  frightened  by  reality  and  came  into  collision  with  all 
its  unknown  difificulties.  Living  in  Felicia's  house,  the  re- 
sponsibility became  still  more  serious  by  reason  of  the 
wastefulness  introduced  long  ago  by  the  father  and  con- 
tinued by  the  daughter,  two  artists  knowing  nothing  of 
economy.  She  had,  moreover,  other  difificulties  to  conquer. 
She  found  the  studio  insupportable  with  its  permanent  at- 
mosphere of  tobacco  smoke,  an  impenetrable  cloud  for  her, 
in  which  the  discussions  on  art,  the  analysis  of  ideas,  were  lost 
and  which  infallibly  gave  her  a  headache.  "  Chafif,"  above 
all,  frightened  her.  As  a  foreigner,  as  at  one  time  a  divinity 
of  the  green-room,  brought  up  on  out-of-date  compliments, 

104 


Felicia  Ruys 


on  gallantries  a  la  Doraf,  she  did  not  understand  it,  and 
would  feel  terrified  in  the  presence  of  the  wild  exaggera- 
tions, the  paradoxes  of  these  Parisians  refined  by  the  liberty 
of  the  studio. 

That  kind  of  thing  was  intimidating  to  her  who  had 
never  possessed  wit  save  in  the  vivacity  of  her  feet,  and  re- 
duced her  simply  to  the  rank  of  a  lady-companion ;  and, 
seeing  this  amiable  old  dame  sitting,  silent  and  smiling,  her 
knitting  in  her  lap,  like  one  of  Chardin's  bourgeoises,  or 
hastening  by  the  side  of  her  cook  up  the  long  Rue  de  Chail- 
lot,  where  the  nearest  market  happened  to  be,  one  would 
never  have  guessed  that  that  simple  old  body  had  ruled 
kings,  princes,  the  whole  class  of  amorous  nobles  and  finan- 
ciers, at  the  caprice  of  her  step  and  pirouettings. 

Paris  is  full  of  such  fallen  stars,  extinguished  by  the 
crowd. 

Some  of  these  famous  ones,  these  conquerors  of  a  for- 
mer day,  cherish  a  rage  in  their  heart ;  others,  on  the  con- 
trary, enjoy  the  past  blissfully,  digest  in  an  ineffable  con- 
tent all  their  glorious  and  ended  joys,  asking  only  repose, 
silence,  shadow,  good  enough  for  memory  and  contem- 
plation, so  that  when  they  die  people  are  quite  astonished 
to  learn  that  they  had  been  still  living. 

Constance  Crenmitz  was  among  these  fortunate  ones. 
The  household  of  these  two  women  was  a  curious  one. 
Both  were  childlike,  placing  side  by  side  in  a  common  do- 
main, inexperience  and  ambition,  the  tranquility  of  an 
accomplished  destiny  and  the  fever  of  a  life  plunged  in 
struggle,  all  the  different  qualities  manifest  even  in  the 
serene  style  of  dress  affected  by  this  blonde  who  seemed  all 
white  like  a  faded  rose,  with  something  beneath  her  bright 
colours  that  vaguely  suggested  the  footlights,  and  that  bru- 
nette with  the  regular  features,  who  almost  always  clothed 
her  beauty  in  dark  materials,  simple  in  fold,  a  semblance,  as 
it  were,  of  virility. 

Things  unforeseen,  caprices,  ignorance  of  even  the 
least  important  details,  led  to  an  extreme  disorder  in  the 
finances  of  the  household,  disorder  which  was  only  rectified 
by  dint  of  privations,  by  the  dismissal  of  servants,  by  reforms 

105 


The  Nabob 

that  were  laughable  in  their  exaggeration.  During  one  of 
these  crises,  Jenkins  had  made  veiled  delicate  offers,  which, 
however,  were  repulsed  with  contempt  by  Felicia. 

"  It  is  not  nice  of  you,"  Constance  would  remark  to  her, 
"to  be  so  hard  on  the  poor  doctor.  After  all,  there  was 
nothing  offensive  in  his  suggestion.  An  old  friend  of  your 
father." 

"  He,  any  oneis  friend  I    Ah,  the  hypocrite !  " 

And  Felicia,  hardly  able  to  contain  herself,  would  give 
an  ironical  turn  to  her  wrath,  imitating  Jenkins  with  his 
oily  manner  and  his  hand  on  his  heart;  then,  puffing  out 
her  cheeks,  she  would  say  in  a  loud,  deep  voice  full  of  lying 
unction : 

"  Let  us  be  humane,  let  us  be  kind.  To  do  good  with- 
out hope  of  reward !    That  is  the  whole  point." 

Constance  used  to  laugh  till  the  tears  came,  in  spite  of 
herself.    The  resemblance  was  so  perfect. 

"  All  the  same,  you  are  too  hard.  You  will  end  by 
driving  him  away  altogether." 

"  Little  fear  of  that,"  a  shake  of  the  girl's  head  would 
reply. 

In  effect  he  always  came  back,  pleasant,  amiable,  dis- 
simulating his  passion,  which  was  visible  only  when  it  grew 
jealous  of  newcomers,  paying  assiduous  attention  to  the 
old  dancer,  who,  in  spite  of  everything,  found  his  good- 
nature pleasing  and  recognised  in  him  a  man  of  her  own 
time,  of  the  time  when  one  accosted  a  woman  with  a  kiss  on 
her  hand,  with  a  compliment  on  her  appearance. 

One  morning,  Jenkins  having  called  in  the  course  of  his 
round,  found  Constance  alone  and  doing  nothing  in  the 
antechamber. 

"  You  see,  doctor,  I  am  on  guard,"  she  remarked  tran- 
quilly. 

"How  is  that?" 

"  Felicia  is  at  work.  She  wishes  not  to  be  disturbed ; 
and  the  servants  are  so  stupid,  I  am  myself  seeing  that  her 
orders  are  obeyed." 

Then,  seeing  that  the  Irishman  made  a  step  towards 
the  studio: 

io6 


Felicia  Ruys 


"No,  no,  don't  go  in.  She  told  me  very  particularly 
not  to  let  any  one  go  in." 

"But  I?" 

"  I  beg  you  not.    You  would  get  me  a  scolding." 

Jenkins  was  about  to  take  his  leave  when  a  burst  of 
laughter  from  Felicia,  coming  through  the  curtains,  made 
him  prick  up  his  ears. 

"  She  is  not  alone,  then  ?  " 

"  No,  the  Nabob  is  with  her.  They  are  having  a  sitting 
for  the  portrait." 

"  And  why  this  mystery  ?  It  is  a  very  singular  thing." 
He  commenced  to  walk  backward  and  forward,  evidently 
very  angry,  but  containing  his  wrath. 

At  last  he  burst  forth. 

It  was  an  unheard-of  impropriety  to  let  a  girl  thus  shut 
herself  in  with  a  man. 

He  was  surprised  that  one  so  serious,  so  devoted  as 
Constance —     What  did  it  look  like? 

The  old  lady  looked  at  him  with  stupefaction.  As 
though  Felicia  were  like  other  girls !  And  then  what 
danger  was  there  with  the  Nabob,  so  staid  a  man  and  so 
ugly?  Besides,  Jenkins  ought  to  know  quite  well  that 
Felicia  never  consulted  anybody,  that  she  always  had  her 
own  way. 

"  No,  no,  it  is  impossible !  I  cannot  tolerate  this," 
exclaimed  the  Irishman. 

And,  without  paying  any  further  heed  to  the  dancer, 
who  raised  her  arms  to  heaven  as  a  call  upon  it  to  witness 
what  was  about  to  happen,  he  moved  towards  the  studio ; 
but,  instead  of  entering  immediately,  he  softly  half-opened 
the  door  and  raised  a  corner  of  the  hangings,  whereby  the 
portion  of  the  room  in  which  the  Nabob  was  posing  became 
visible  to  him,  although  at  a  considerable  distance. 

Jansoulet,  seated  without  cravat  and  with  his  waist- 
coat open,  was  talking  apparently  in  some  agitation  and  in 
a  low  voice.  Felicia  was  replying  in  a  similar  tone,  in 
laughing  whispers.  The  sitting  was  very  animated.  Then 
a  silence,  a  silken  rustle  of  skirts,  and  the  artist,  going  up 
to  her  model,  turned  down  his  linen  collar  all  round  with 

107 


The  Nabob 

familiar  gesture,  allowing  her  light  hand  to  run  over  the 
sun-tanned  skin. 

That  Ethiopian  face  on  which  the  muscles  stood  out  in 
the  very  intoxication  of  health,  with  its  long  drooping  eye- 
lashes as  of  some  deer  being  gently  stroked  in  its  sleep ;  the 
bold  profile  of  the  girl  as  she  leaned  over  those  strange 
features  in  order  to  verify  their  proportions ;  then  a  vio- 
lent, irresistible  gesture,  clutching  the  delicate  hand  as  it 
passed  and  pressing  it  to  two  thick,  passionate  lips.  Jen- 
kins saw  all  that  in  one  red  flash. 

The  noise  that  he  made  in  entering  caused  the  two 
personages  instantly  to  resume  their  respective  positions, 
and,  in  the  strong  light  which  dazzled  his  prying  eyes,  he 
saw  the  young  girl  standing  before  him,  indignant,  stupe- 
fied. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  Who  has  taken  the  liberty  ?  "  and  the 
Nabob,  on  his  platform,  with  his  collar  turned  down,  petri- 
fied, monumental. 

Jenkins,  a  little  abashed,  frightened  by  his  own  audacity, 
murmured  some  excuses.  He  had  something  very  urgent 
to  say  to  M.  Jansoulet,  a  piece  of  new^s  which  was  most 
important  and  would  suffer  no  delay.  "  He  knew  upon  the 
best  authority  that  certain  decorations  were  to  be  bestowed 
on  the  i6th  of  March." 

Immediately  the  face  of  the  Nabob,  that  for  a  mo- 
ment had  been  frowning,  relaxed. 

"Ah!  can  it  be  true?" 

He  abandoned  his  pose.  The  thing  was  worth  the 
trouble,  que  diable!  M.  de  la  Perriere,  a  secretary  of  the 
department  involved,  had  been  commissioned  by  the  Em- 
press to  visit  the  Bethlehem  Refuge.  Jenkins  had  come 
in  search  of  the  Nabob  to  take  him  to  see  the  secretary  at 
the  Tuileries  and  to  appoint  a  day.  This  visit  to  Bethle- 
hem, it  meant  the  cross  for  him. 

"  Quick,  let  us  start,  my  dear  doctor.    I  follow  you." 

He  was  no  longer  angry  with  Jenkins  for  having  dis- 
turbed him,  and  he  knotted  his  cravat  feverishly,  forget- 
ting in  his  new  emotion  how  he  had  been  upset  a  moment 
earlier,  for  ambition  with  him  came  before  all  else; 

io8 


Felicia  Ruys 


While  the  two  men  were  talking  in  a  half-whisper,  Fe- 
licia, standing  motionless  before  them,  with  quivering  nos- 
trils and  her  lip  curled  in  contempt,  watched  them  with 
an  air  of  saying,  "  Well,  I  am  waiting." 

Jansoulet  apologized  for  being  obliged  to  interrupt  the 
sitting ;  but  a  visit  of  the  most  extreme  importance —  She 
smiled  in  pity. 

"  Don't  mention  it,  don't  mention  it.  At  the  point 
which  we  have  reached  I  can  work  without  you." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "  the  work  is  almost  com- 
pleted." 

He  added  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur: 

"  It  is  a  fine  piece  of  work." 

And,  counting  upon  covering  his  retreat  with  this  com- 
pliment, he  made  for  the  door  with  shoulders  drooped; 
but  Felicia  detained  him  abruptly. 

"  Stay,  you.    I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

He  saw  clearly  from  her  look  that  he  would  have  to 
yield,  on  pain  of  an  explosion. 

"  You  will  excuse  me,  chcr  ami?  Mademoiselle  has 
a  word  for  me.  My  brougham  is  at  the  door.  Get  in.  I 
will  be  with  you  immediately." 

As  soon  as  the  door  of  the  studio  had  closed  on  that 
heavy,  retreating  foot,  each  of  them  looked  at  the  other 
full  in  the  face. 

"  You  must  be  either  drunk  or  mad  to  have  allowed 
yourself  to  behave  in  this  way.  What!  you  dare  to  enter 
my  house  when  I  am  not  at  home  ?  What  does  this  violence 
mean  ?    By  what  right " 

"  By  the  right  of  a  despairing  and  incurable  passion." 

"  Be  silent,  Jenkins,  you  are  saying  words  that  I  will 
not  hear.  I  allow  you  to  come  here  out  of  pity,  from 
habit,  because  my  father  was  fond  of  you.  But  never  speak 
to  me  again  of  your— love  "—she  uttered  the  word  in  a 
very  low  voice,  as  though  it  were  shameful — "  or  you  shall 
never  see  me  again,  even  though  I  should  have  to  kill  my- 
self in  order  to  escape  you  once  and  for  all." 

A  child  caught  in  mischief  could  not  bend  its  head  more 
humbly  !han  did  Jenkins,  as  he  replied: 

109 


The  Nabob 

"  It  rs  true.  I  was  in  the  wrong.  A  moment  of  mad- 
ness, of  blindness —  But  why  do  you  amuse  yourself  by 
torturing  my  heart  as  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  think  of  you  often,  however." 

*'  Whether  you  think  of  me  or  not,  I  am  there,  I  see 
what  goes  on,  and  your  coquetry  hurts  me  terribly." 

A  touch  of  red  mounted  to  her  cheeks  at  this  reproach. 

"A  coquette,  I?    And  with  whom?" 

"  With  that,"  said  the  Irishman,  indicating  the  ape-like 
and  powerful  bust. 

She  tried  to  laugh. 

"  The  Nabob  ?    What  folly  1 " 

"  Don't  tell  an  untruth  about  it  now.  Do  you  think  I 
am  blind,  that  I  do  not  notice  all  your  little  manoeuvres? 
You  remain  alone  with  him  for  very  long  at  a  time.  Just 
now,  I  was  there.  I  saw  you."  He  dropped  his  voice  as 
though  breath  had  failed  him.  "  What  do  you  want,  strange 
and  cruel  child?  I  have  seen  you  repulse  the  most  hand- 
some, the  most  noble,  the  greatest.  Tha:  little  de  Gery  de- 
vours you  with  his  eyes ;  you  take  no  notice.  The  Due  de 
Mora  himself  has  not  been  able  to  reach  your  heart.  And 
it  is  that  man  there  who  is  ugly,  vulgar,  who  has  no  thought 
of  you,  whose  head  is  full  of  quite  other  matters  than  love. 
You  saw  how  he  went  off  just  now.  What  can  you  mean? 
What  do  you  expect  from  him  ?  " 

"  I  want — I  want  him  to  marry  me.    There !  " 

Coldly,  in  a  softened  tone,  as  though  this  avowal  had 
brought  her  nearer  the  level  of  the  man  whom  she  so 
much  despised,  she  explained  her  motives.  The  life  which 
she  led  was  pushing  her  into  a  situation  from  which  there 
was  no  way  out.  She  had  luxurious  and  expensive  tastes, 
habits  of  disorder  which  nothing  could  conquer  and  which 
would  bring  her  inevitably  to  poverty,  both  her  and  that 
good  Crenmitz,  who  was  allowing  herself  to  be  ruined  with- 
out saying  a  word.  In  three  years,  four  years  at  the  outside, 
all  would  be  over  with  them.  And  then  the  wretched  ex- 
pedients, the  debts,  the  tatters  and  old  shoes  of  poor  artists* 
households.  Or,  indeed,  the  lover,  the  man  who  keeps  a 
mistress — that  is  to  say,  slavery  and  infamy. 

no 


Felicia  Ruys 


"  Come,  come,"  said  Jenkins.  "  And  what  of  me,  am  1 
not  here  ?  " 

"  Anything  rather  than  you,"  she  exclaimed,  stiffening. 
"  No,  what  I  require,  what  I  want,  is  a  husband  who  will 
protect  me  from  others  and  from  myself,  who  will  save 
me  from  many  terrible  things  of  which  I  am  afraid  in  my 
moments  of  ennui,  from  gulfs  in  which  I  feel  that  I  may 
perish,  some  one  who  will  love  me  while  I  am  at  work 
and  relieve  my  poor  old  wearied  fairy  of  her  sentry  duty. 
This  man  here  suits  my  purpose,  and  I  thought  of  him 
from  the  first  time  I  met  him.  He  is  ugly,  but  he  has  a 
kind  manner;  then,  too,  he  is  ridiculously  rich,  and  wealth, 
upon  that  scale,  must  be  amusing.  Oh,  I  know  well 
enough.  No  doubt  there  is  in  his  life  some  blemish  that 
has  brought  him  luck.  All  that  money  cannot  be  made 
honestly.  But  come,  truly  now,  Jenkins,  with  your  hand 
on  that  heart  you  so  often  invoke,  do  you  think  me  a  wife 
who  should  be  very  attractive  to  an  honest  man?  See: 
among  all  these  young  men  who  ask  permission  as  a  fa- 
vour to  be  allowed  to  come  here,  which  one  has  dreamed 
of  offering  me  marriage?  Never  a  single  one.  De  Gery 
no  more  than  the  rest.  I  am  attractive,  but  I  make  men 
afraid.  It  is  intelligible  enough.  What  can  one  imagine 
of  a  girl  brought  up  as  I  have  been,  without  a  mother, 
among  my  father's  models  and  mistresses?  What  mis- 
tresses, mon  Dieu!  And  Jenkins  for  sole  guardian.  Oh, 
when  I  think,  when  I  think !  " 

And  from  that  far-off  memory  things  surged  up  that 
stirred  her  to  a  deeper  wrath. 

"  Ah,  yes,  parbleu!  I  am  a  daughter  of  adventure,  and 
this  adventurer  is,  of  a  truth,  the  fit  husband  for  me." 

"  You  must  wait  at  least  till  he  is  a  widower,"  replied 
Jenkins  calmly.  "  And,  in  that  case,  you  run  the  risk  of 
having  a  long  time  yet  to  wait,  for  his  Levantine  seems 
to  enjoy  excellent  health." 

Felicia  Ruys  turned  pale. 

"  He  is  married?  " 

"  Married?  certainly,  and  father  of  a  bevy  of  children. 
The  whole  camp  of  them  landed  a  couple  of  days  ago." 

Ill 


The  Nabob 

For  a  minute  she  remained  overwhelmed,  looking  into 
space,  her  cheeks  quivering.  Opposite  her,  the  Nabob's 
large  face,  with  its  flattened  nose,  its  sensual  and  weak 
mouth,  spoke  insistently  of  life  and  reality  in  the  gloss  of 
its  clay.  She  looked  at  it  for  an  instant,  then  made  a  step 
forward  and,  with  a  gesture  of  disgust,  overturned,  with  the 
high  wooden  stool  on  which  it  stood,  the  glistening  and 
greasy  block,  which  fell  on  the  floor  shattered  to  a  heap 
of  mud. 


112 


VII 

JANSOULET   AT   HOME 

Married  he  was  and  had  been  so  for  twelve  years,  but 
he  had  mentioned  the  fact  to  no  one  among  his  Parisian  ac- 
quaintances, through  Eastern  habit,  that  silence  which  the 
people  of  those  countries  preserve  upon  affairs  of  the 
harem.  Suddenly  it  was  reported  that  madame  was  com- 
ing, that  apartments  were  to  be  prepared  for  herself,  her 
children,  and  her  female  attendants.  The  Nabob  took  the 
whole  second  floor  of  the  house  on  the  Place  Vendome, 
the  tenant  of  which  was  turned  out  at  an  expense  worthy 
of  a  Nabob.  The  stables  also  were  extended,  the  staff 
doubled ;  then,  one  day,  coachmen  and  carriages  went  to  the 
Gare  de  Lyon  to  meet  madame,  who  arrived  by  a  train 
heated  expressly  for  her  during  the  journey  from  Marseilles 
and  filled  by  a  suite  of  negresses,  serving-maids,  and  little 
negro  boys. 

She  arrived  in  a  condition  of  frightful  exhaustion,  ut- 
terly worn  out  and  bewildered  by  her  long  railway  journey, 
the  first  of  her  life,  for,  after  being  taken  to  Tunis  while 
still  quite  a  child,  she  had  never  left  it.  From  her  carriage, 
two  negroes  carried  her  into  her  apartments  on  an  easy 
chair  which,  subsequently,  always  remained  downstairs  be- 
neath the  entrance  porch,  in  readiness  for  these  difficult 
removals.  Mme.  Jansoulet  could  not  mount  the  staircase, 
which  made  her  dizzy ;  she  would  not  have  lifts,  which 
creaked  under  her  weight ;  besides,  she  never  walked.  Of 
enormous  size,  bloated  to  such  a  degree  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  assign  to  her  any  particular  age  between  twenty- 
five  and  forty,  with  a  rather  pretty  face  but  grown  shapeless 
in  its  features,  dull  eyes  beneath  lids  that  drooped,  vulgarly 
dressed  in  foreign  clothes,  laden  with  diamonds  and  jewels 

113 


The  Nabob 

after  the  fashion  of  a  Hindu  idol,  she  was  as  fine  a  sample  as 
could  be  found  of  those  transplanted  European  women 
called  Levantines — a  curious  race  of  obese  Creoles  whom 
speech  and  costume  alone  attach  to  our  world,  but  whom 
the  East  wraps  round  with  its  stupefying  atmosphere,  with 
the  subtle  poisons  of  its  drugged  air  in  which  everything, 
from  the  tissues  of  the  skin  to  the  waists  of  garments,  even 
to  the  soul,  is  enervated  and  relaxed. 

This  particular  specimen  of  it  was  the  daughter  of  an 
immensely  rich  Belgian  who  was  engaged  in  the  coral  trade 
at  Tunis,  and  in  whose  business  Jansoulet,  after  his  arrival 
in  the  country,  had  been  employed  for  some  months. 
Mile.  Afchin,  in  those  days  a  delicious  little  doll  of  twelve 
years  old,  with  radiant  complexion,  hair,  and  health,  used 
often  to  come  to  fetch  her  father  from  the  counting-house 
in  the  great  chariot  with  its  yoke  of  mules  which  carried 
them  to  their  fine  villa  at  La  Marsu,  in  the  vicinity  of 
Tunis.  This  mischievous  child  with  splendid  bare  shoulders, 
had  dazzled  the  adventurer  as  he  caught  glimpses  of  her 
amid  her  luxurious  surroundings,  and,  years  afterward, 
when,  having  become  rich  and  the  favourite  of  the  Bey, 
he  began  to  think  of  settling  down,  it  was  to  her  that  his  » 
thoughts  went.  The  child  had  grown  into  a  fat  young 
woman,  heavy  and  white.  Her  intelligence,  dull  in  the 
first  instance,  had  become  still  more  obscured  through 
the  inertia  of  a  dormouse's  existence,  the  carelessness  of  a 
father  given  over  to  business,  the  use  of  opium-saturated 
tobacco  and  of  preserves  made  from  rose-leaves,  the  torpor 
of  her  Flemish  blood,  re-enforced  by  Oriental  indolence. 
Furthermore,  she  was  ill-bred,  gluttonous,  sensual,  arro- 
gant, a  Levantine  jewel  in  perfection. 

But  Jansoulet  saw  nothing  of  all  this. 

For  him  she  was,  and  remained,  up  to  the  time  of  her 
arrival  in  Paris,  a  superior  creature,  a  lady  of  the  most 
exalted  rank,  a  Demoiselle  Afchin.  He  addressed  her  with 
respect,  in  her  presence  maintained  an  attitude  which  was 
a  little  constrained  and  timid,  gave  her  money  without 
counting,  satisfied  her  most  costly  fantasies,  her  wildest 
caprices,  all  the  strange  desires  of  a  Levantine's  brain  dis- 

114 


Jansoiilet  at  Home 


ordered  through  boredom  and  idleness.  One  word  alone 
excused  everything.  She  was  a  Demoiselle  Afchin.  Be- 
yond this,  no  intercourse  between  them;  he  always  at  the 
Kasbah  or  the  Bardo,  courting  the  favour  of  the  Bey,  or 
else  in  his  counting-houses ;  she  passing  her  days  in  bed, 
wearing  in  her  hair  a  diadem  of  pearls  worth  three  hundred 
thousand  francs  which  she  never  took  ofif,  befuddling  her 
brain  with  smoking,  living  as  in  a  harem,  admiring  herself 
in  the  glass,  adorning  herself,  in  company  with  a  few  other 
Levantines,  whose  supreme  distraction  consisted  in  meas- 
uring with  their  necklaces  arms  and  legs  which  rivalled  each 
other  in  plumpness,  and  bearing  children  about  whom  she 
never  gave  herself  the  least  trouble,  whom  she  never  used 
to  see,  who  had  not  even  cost  her  a  pang,  for  she  gave  birth 
to  them  under  chloroform.  A  lump  of  white  flesh  perfumed 
with  musk.  And,  as  Jansoulet  used  to  say  with  pride :  "  I 
married  a  Demoiselle  Afchin !  " 

Under  the  sky  of  Paris  and  its  cold  light  the  disillusion 
began.  Determined  to  settle  down,  to  receive,  to  give  en- 
tertainments, the  Nabob  had  brought  his  wife  over  with 
the  idea  of  setting  her  at  the  head  of  the  estabhshment ; 
but  when  he  saw  the  arrival  of  that  display  of  gaudy  draper- 
ies of  Palais-Royal  jewelry,  and  all  the  strange  parapher- 
nalia in  her  suite,  he  had  a  vague  impression  of  a  Queen 
Pomare  in  exile.  The  fact  was  that  now  he  had  seen  real 
women  of  the  world,  and  he  made  comparisons.  After  hav- 
ing planned  a  great  ball  to  celebrate  her  arrival,  he  pru- 
dently changed  his  mind.  Besides,  Mme.  Jansoulet  desired 
to  see  nobody.  Here  her  natural  indolence  was  increased 
by  the  home-sickness  which  she  suffered,  from  the  first 
hour  of  her  coming,  by  the  chilliness  of  a  yellow  fog  and 
the  dripping  rain.  She  passed  several  days  without  getting 
up,  weeping  aloud  like  a  child,  saying  that  it  was  in  order 
to  cause  her  death  that  she  had  been  brought  to  Paris, 
and  not  permitting  her  women  to  do  even  the  least  thing 
for  her.  She  lay  there  bellowing  among  the  laces  of  her 
pillow,  with  her  hair  bristling  in  disorder  about  her  diadem, 
the  windows  of  the  room  closed,  the  curtains  drawn  close, 
the  lamps  lighted  night  and  day,  crying  out  that  she  wanted 

115 


The  Nabob 

to  go  away-y,  to  go  away-y;  and  it  was  pitiful  to  see,  in 
that  funereal  gloom,  the  half-unpacked  trunks  scattered  over 
the  carpets,  the  frightened  maids,  the  negresses  crouched 
around  their  mistress  in  her  nervous  attack,  they  also  groan- 
ing, with  haggard  eyes  like  those  dogs  of  arctic  travellers 
that  go  mad  without  the  sun. 

The  Irish  doctor,  called  in  to  deal  with  all  this  trouble, 
had  no  success  with  his  fatherly  manners,  the  pretty 
phrases  that  issued  from  his  compressed  lips.  The  Le- 
vantine would  have  nothing  to  do  at  any  price  with  the 
arsenic  pearls  as  a  tonic.  The  Nabob  was  in  consternation. 
What  was  to  be  done?  Send  her  back  to  Tunis  with  the 
children?  It  was  scarcely  possible.  He  was  decidedly  in 
disgrace  in  that  quarter.  The  Hemerlingues  were  trium- 
phant. A  last  affront  had  filled  up  the  measure.  At  Jan- 
soulet's  departure,  the  Bey  had  commissioned  him  to  have 
gold-pieces  struck  at  the  Paris  Mint  of  a  new  design  to 
the  value  of  several  millions ;  then  the  order,  suddenly 
withdrawn,  had  been  given  to  Hemerlingue.  Publicly  out- 
raged, Jansoulet  had  replied  by  a  public  demonstration, 
offering  for  sale  all  his  possessions,  his  palace  at  the 
Bardo  given  to  him  by  the  former  Bey,  his  villas  of  La 
Marsu  all  of  white  marble,  surrounded  by  splendid  gardens, 
his  counting-houses  which  were  the  largest  and  the  most 
sumptuous  in  the  city,  and,  charging,  finally,  the  intelligent 
Bompain  to  bring  over  to  him  his  wife  and  children  in 
order  to  make  a  clear  affirmation  of  a  definitive  departure. 
After  such  an  uproar,  it  was  no  easy  thing  for  him  to  re- 
turn there ;  this  was  what  he  endeavoured  to  make  evi- 
dent to  Mile.  Afchin,  who  only  replied  to  him  by  deep 
groans.  He  tried  to  console  her,  to  amuse  her,  but  what 
distraction  could  be  found  to  appeal  to  that  monstrously 
apathetic  nature?  And  then,  could  he  change  the  sky  of 
Paris,  restore  to  the  unhappy  Levantine  her  patio  paved 
with  marble,  where  she  used  to  pass  long  hours  in  a 
cool,  delicious  sleepiness,  listening  to  the  water  as  it 
dripped  on  the  great  alabaster  fountain  with  its  three  basins, 
one  over  the  other,  and  her  gilded  barge,  with  its  awning 
of  crimson,  which  eight  Tripolitan  boatmen    supple  and 

ii6 


Jansoulet  at  Home 


vigorous,  rowed  after  sunset  on  the  beautiful  lake  of  El- 
Baheira?  However  luxurious  the  apartment  of  the  Place 
Vendome  might  be,  it  could  not  compensate  for  the  loss  of 
these  marvels.  And  then  she  would  be  more  miserable  than 
ever.  At  last,  a  man  who  w^as  a  frequent  visitor  to  the  house 
succeeded  in  lifting  her  out  of  her  despair.  This  w^as  Ca- 
bassu,  the  man  who  described  himself  on  his  cards  as  "  pro- 
fessor of  massage,"  a  big,  dark,  thick-set  man,  smelling  of 
garlic  and  pomade,  square-shouldered,  hairy  to  the  eyes, 
and  who  knew^  stories  of  Parisian  seraglios,  tales  within 
the  reach  of  madame's  intelligence.  Having  once  come  to 
massage  her,  she  wished  to  see  him  again,  retained  him. 
He  had  to  give  up  all  his  other  clients,  and  became,  at  the 
salary  of  a  senator,  the  masseur  of  this  stout  lady,  her  page, 
her  reader,  her  body-guard.  Jansoulet,  delighted  to  see 
his  wife  contented,  was  unconscious  of  the  ridicule  attached 
to  this  intimacy. 

Cabassu  was  now  seen  in  the  Bois,  seated  beside  the 
favourite  maid  in  the  huge  and  sumptuous  open  carriage, 
also  at  the  back  of  the  theatre  boxes  taken  by  the  Levantine, 
for  she  began  to  go  out,  since  she  had  grown  less  torpid 
tinder  the  treatment  of  her  masseur  and  was  determined  to 
amuse  herself.  The  theatre  pleased  her,  especially  farces  or 
melodramas.  The  apathy  of  her  large  body  found  a  stimulus 
in  the  false  glare  of  the  footlights.  But  it  was  to  Cardailhac's 
theatre  that  she  went  for  preference.  There,  the  Nabob 
found  himself  in  his  own  house.  From  the  chief  superin- 
tendent to  the  humblest  ouvreuse,  the  whole  staff  was  under 
his  control.  He  had  a  key  which  enabled  him  to  pass  from 
the  corridors  on  to  the  stage ;  and  the  small  drawing-room 
communicating  with  his  box  was  decorated  in  Oriental  man- 
ner, with  a  concave  ceiling  like  a  beehive,  its  couches  cov- 
ered in  camel's  hair,  the  flame  of  the  gas  inclosed  in  a  little 
Moorish  lantern.  Here  one  could  enjoy  a  siesta  during 
rather  long  intervals  between  the  acts ;  a  gallant  attention 
on  the  part  of  the  manager  to  the  wife  of  his  partner.  Nor 
did  that  ape  of  a  Cardailhac  stop  at  this.  Remarking  the 
taste  of  the  Demoiselle  Afchin  for  the  drama,  he  had  ended 
by  persuading  her  that  she  also  possessed  the  intuition,  the 

117 


The  Nabob 

knowledge  of  it,  and  by  begging  her  when  she  had  noth- 
ing better  to  do  to  glance  over  and  let  him  know  what  she 
thought  of  the  pieces  which  were  submitted  to  him.  A 
good  way  of  cementing  the  partnership  more  firmly. 

Poor  manuscripts  in  your  blue  or  yellow  covers,  bound 
by  hope  with  fragile  ribbons,  that  set  out  full  of  ambition 
and  dreams,  who  knows  what  hands  may  touch  you,  turn 
over  your  pages,  what  indiscreet  fingers  deflower  your 
charm,  the  charm  of  the  unknown,  that  glittering  dust  which 
lies  on  new  ideas?  Who  may  judge  you  and  who  condemn? 
Sometimes,  before  dining  out,  Jansoulet,  mounting  to  his 
wife's  room,  would  find  her  on  her  lounge,  smoking,  her 
head  thrown  back,  bundles  of  manuscripts  by  her  side,  and 
Cabassu,  armed  with  a  blue  pencil,  reading  in  his  thick 
voice  and  with  the  Bourg-Saint-Andeol  accent,  some  dra- 
matic lucubration  which  he  cut  and  scored  without  pity  at 
the  least  criticism  from  the  lady. 

"  Don't  disturb  yourselves,"  the  good  Nabob  would 
signal  with  his  hand,  entering  on  tiptoe.  He  would  listen, 
shake  his  head  with  an  admiring  air,  as  he  watched  his 
wife:  "She  is  astonishing!"  for  he  himself  understood 
nothing  about  literature,  and  there,  at  least,  he  could  dis- 
cover once  again  the  superiority  of  Mile.  Afchin. 

"  She  had  the  instinct  of  the  stage,"  as  Cardailhac  used 
to  say ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  maternal  instinct  was 
wanting  in  her.  Never  did  she  take  any  interest  in  her 
children,  abandoning  them  to  the  hands  of  strangers,  and, 
when  they  were  brought  to  her  once  a  month,  contenting 
herself  with  offering  to  them  the  flaccid  and  inanimate 
flesh  of  her  cheeks  between  two  puffs  of  cigarette-smoke, 
without  making  any  inquiries  into  those  details  of  their 
bringing  up  and  of  their  health  which  perpetuate  the  phys- 
ical bond  of  maternity  and  make  the  hearts  of  true  mothers 
bleed  at  the  least  suffering  of  their  children. 

They  were  three  big,  dull,  and  apathetic  boys  of  eleven, 
nine,  and  seven  years,  having,  with  the  sallow  complexion 
and  the  precocious  bloatedness  of  the  Levantine,  the  kind, 
black,  velvety  eyes  of  their  father.  They  were  ignorant  as 
young  lords  of  the  middle  ages.    At  Tunis,  M.  Bompain  had 

ii8 


Jansoulet  at  Home 


directed  their  studies ;  but  at  Paris,  the  Nabob,  anxious  to 
give  them  the  benefit  of  a  Parisian  education,  had  sent  them 
to  that  smartest  and  most  expensive  of  boarding-schools,  the 
College  Bourdaloue,  managed  by  good  priests  who  sought 
less  to  instruct  their  pupils  than  to  make  of  them  good- 
mannered  and  right-thinking  men  of  the  world,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  turning  them  out  affectedly  grave  and  ridiculous 
little  prigs,  disdainful  of  games,  absolutely  ignorant,  with- 
out anything  spontaneous  or  boyish  about  them,  and  of 
a  desperate  precocity.  The  little  Jansoulets  were  not  very 
happy  in  this  forcing-house,  notwithstanding  the  immuni- 
ties which  they  enjoyed  by  reason  of  their  immense  wealth ; 
they  were,  indeed,  utterly  left  to  themselves.  Even  the  Cre- 
oles in  the  charge  of  the  institution  had  some  friend  whom 
they  visited  and  people  who  came  to  see  them ;  but  the 
Jansoulets  were  never  summoned  to  the  parlour,  no  one 
knew  any  of  their  relatives ;  from  time  to  time  they  received 
basketfuls  of  sweetmeats,  piles  of  confectionery,  and  that 
was  all.  The  Nabob,  doing  some  shopping  in  Paris,  would 
strip  for  them  the  whole  of  a  pastry-cook's  window  and 
send  the  spoils  to  the  college,  with  that  generous  impulse 
of  the  heart  mingled  with  negro  ostentation  which  charac- 
terized all  his  actions.  It  was  the  same  in  the  matter  of 
playthings.  They  were  always  too  pretty,  tricked  out  too 
finely,  useless — those  toys  that  are  for  show  but  which  the 
Parisian  does  not  buy.  But  that  which  above  all  attracted 
to  the  little  Jansoulets  the  respect  both  of  pupils  and  mas- 
ters, were  their  purses  heavy  with  gold,  ever  ready  for 
school  subscriptions,  for  the  professors'  birthdays,  and  the 
charity  visits,  those  famous  visits  organized  by  the  College 
Bourdaloue,  one  of  the  tempting  things  in  the  prospectus, 
the  marvel  of  sensitive  souls. 

Twice  a  month,  turn  and  turn  about,  the  pupils  who 
were  members  of  the  miniature  Society  of  St.  Vincent  de 
Paul  founded  in  the  college  upon  the  model  of  the  great 
one,  went  in  little  squads,  alone,  as  though  they  had  been 
grown-up,  to  bear  succour  and  consolation  into  the  deep- 
est recesses  of  the  more  densely  populated  quarters  of  the 
town.    This  was  designed  to  teach  them  a  practical  charity, 

119 


The  Nabob 

the  art  of  knowing  the  needs,  the  miseries  of  the  lower 
classes,  and  to  heal  these  heart-rending  evils  by  a  nostrum  of 
kind  words  and  ecclesiastical  maxims.  To  console,  to  evan- 
gelize the  masses  by  the  help  of  childhood,  to  disarm  re- 
ligious incredulity  by  the  youth  and  naivete  of  the  apostles, 
such  was  the  aim  of  this  little  society;  an  aim  entirely 
missed,  moreover.  The  children,  healthy,  well-dressed, 
well-fed,  calling  only  at  addresses  previously  selected,  found 
poor  persons  of  good  appearance,  sometimes  rather  unwell, 
but  very  clean,  already  on  the  parish  register  and  in  peceipt 
of  aid  from  the  wealthy  organization  of  the  Church.  Never 
did  they  chance  to  enter  one  of  those  nauseous  dwellings 
wherein  hunger,  grief,  humiliation,  all  physical  and  moral 
ills  are  written  in  leprous  m.ould  on  the  walls,  in  indelible 
lines  on  the  brows.  Their  visits  were  prepared  for,  like  that 
of  the  sovereign  who  enters  a  guard-room  to  taste  the  sol- 
diers' soup:  the  guard-room  is  warmed  and  the  soup  sea- 
soned for  the  royal  palate.  Have  you  seen  those  pictures 
in  pious  books,  where  a  little  communicant,  with  candle 
in  hand,  and  perfectly  groomed,  comes  to  minister  to  a 
poor  old  man  lying  sick  on  his  straw  pallet  and  turning 
the  whites  of  his  eyes  to  heaven?  These  visits  of  charity 
had  the  same  conventionality  of  setting  and  of  accent.  To 
the  measured  gestures  of  the  little  preachers  were  corre- 
sponding words  learned  by  heart  and  false  enough  to  make 
one  squint.  To  the  comic  encouragement,  to  the  "consola- 
tions lavished "  in  prize-book  phrases  by  the  voices  of 
young  urchins  with  colds,  were  the  affecting  benedictions, 
the  whining  and  piteous  mummeries  of  a  church-porch  after 
vespers.  And  the  moment  the  young  visitors  departed, 
what  an  explosion  of  laughter  and  shouting  in  the  garret, 
what  a  dance  in  a  circle  round  the  present  brought,  what  an 
upsetting  of  the  arm-chair  in  which  one  had  pretended  to 
be  lying  ill,  of  the  medicine  spilt  in  the  fire,  a  fire  of  cinders 
very  artistically  prepared ! 

When  the  little  Jansoulets  went  out  to  visit  their 
parents  at  home,  they  were  intrusted  to  the  care  of  the 
man  with  the  red  fez,  the  indispensable  Bompain.  It  was 
Bompain  who  conducted  them  to  the  Champs-Elysees,  clad 

120 


Jansoulet  at  Home 


in  English  jackets,  bowler  hats  of  the  latest  fashion — at 
seven  years  old! — and  carrying  little  canes  in  their  dog- 
skin-gloved hands.  It  was  Bompain  who  stiiiifed  the  race- 
wagonette  with  provisions.  Here  he  mounted  with  the 
children,  who,  with  their  entrance-cards  stuck  in  their  hats 
round  which  green  veils  were  twisted,  looked  very  like 
those  personages  in  Liliputian  pantomimes  whose  entire 
funniness  lies  in  the  enormous  size  of  their  heads  compared 
with  their  small  legs  and  dwarf-like  gestures.  They  smoked 
and  drank;  it  was  a  painful  sight.  Sometimes  the  man  in 
the  fez,  hardly  able  to  hold  himself  upright,  would  bring 
them  home  frightfully  sick.  And  yet  Jansoulet  was  fond 
of  them,  the  youngest  especially,  who,  with  his  long  hair, 
his  doll-like  manner,  recalled  to  him  the  little  Afchin  pass- 
ing in  her  carriage.  But  they  were  still  of  the  age  when 
children  belong  to  the  mother,  when  neither  the  fashionable 
tailor,  nor  the  most  accomplished  masters,  nor  the  smart 
boarding-school,  nor  the  ponies  girthed  specially  for  the 
little  men  in  the  stable,  nor  anything  else  can  replace  the 
attentive  and  caressing  hand,  the  warmth  and  the  gaiety 
of  the  home-nest.  The  father  could  not  give  them  that; 
and  then,  too,  he  was  so  busy ! 

A  thousand  irons  in  the  fire :  the  Territorial  Bank,  the 
installation  of  the  picture  gallery,  drives  to  Tattersall's  with 
Bois  I'Hery,  some  bibelot  to  inspect,  here  or  there,  at  the 
houses  of  collectors  indicated  by  Schwalbach,  hours  passed 
with  trainers,  jockeys,  dealers  in  curiosities,  the  encum- 
bered and  multiple  existence  of  a  bourgeois  gentilhomme  in 
modern  Paris,  This  rubbing  of  shoulders  with  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  people  brought  him  improvement,  in  that 
each  day  he  was  becoming  a  little  more  Parisianized ;  he 
was  received  at  Monpavon's  club,  in  the  green-room  of  the 
ballet,  behind  the  scenes  at  the  theatres,  and  presided  regu- 
larly at  his  famous  bachelor  luncheons,  the  only  receptions 
possible  in  his  household.  His  existence  was  really  a  very 
busy  one,  and  de  Gery  relieved  him  of  the  heaviest  part  of 
it,  the  complicated  department  of  appeals  and  of  charities. 

The  young  man  now  became  acquainted  with  all  the 
audacious  and  burlesque  inventions,  all  the  serio-comic  com- 

121 


The  Nabob 

binations  of  that  mendicancy  of  great  cities,  organized  like  a 
department  of  state,  innumerable  as  an  army,  which  sub- 
scribes to  the  newspapers  and  knows  its  Bottin  by  heart. 
He  received  the  blonde  lady,  bold,  young,  and  already 
faded,  who  only  asks  for  a  hundred  napoleons,  with  the 
threat  that  she  will  throw  herself  into  the  river  when  she 
leaves  if  they  are  not  given  to  her,  and  the  stout  matron 
of  prepossessing  and  unceremonious  manner,  who  says,  as 
she  enters :  "  Sir,  you  do  not  know  me.  Neither  have  I  the 
honour  of  knowing  you.  But  we  shall  soon  make  each 
other's  acquaintance.  Be  kind  enough  to  sit  down  and  let 
us  have  a  chat."  The  merchant  at  bay,  on  the  verge  of 
bankruptcy — sometimes  it  is  true — who  comes  to  entreat 
you  to  save  his  honour,  with  a  pistol  ready  to  shoot  himself, 
bulging  out  the  pocket  of  his  overcoat — sometim.es  it  is 
only  his  pipe-case.  And  often  genuine  distresses,  wearisome 
and  prolix,  of  people  who  are  unable  even  to  tell  how  little 
competent  they  are  to  earn  a  livelihood.  Side  by  side  with 
this  open  begging,  there  was  that  which  wears  various  kinds 
of  disguise :  charity,  philanthropy,  good  works,  the  encour- 
agement of  projects  of  art,  the  house-to-house  begging  for 
infant  asylums,  parish  churches,  rescued  women,  charitable 
societies,  local  libraries.  Finally,  those  who  wear  a  society 
mask,  with  tickets  for  concerts,  benefit  performances,  en- 
trance-cards of  all  colours,  "  platform,  front  seats,  reserved 
seats."  The  Nabob  insisted  that  no  refusals  should  be 
given,  and  it  was  a  concession  that  he  no  longer  burdened 
his  own  shoulders  with  such  matters.  For  quite  a  long 
time,  in  generous  indifference,  fee  had  gone  on  covering 
with  gold  all  that  hypocritical  exploitation,  paying  five 
hundred  francs  for  a  ticket  for  the  concert  of  some  Wiir- 
temberg  cithara-player  or  Languedocian  flutist,  which  at 
the  Tuileries  or  at  the  Due  de  Mora's  might  have  fetched 
ten  francs.  There  were  days  when  the  young  de  Gery  is- 
sued from  these  audiences  nauseated.  All  the  honesty  of 
his  youth  revolted ;  he  approached  the  Nabob  with  schemes 
of  reform.  But  the  Nabob's  face,  at  the  first  word,  would 
assume  the  bored  expression  of  weak  natures  when  they 
have  to  make  a  decision,  or  he  would  perhaps  reply :  "  But 

122 


Jansoulet  at  Home 


that  is  Paris,  my  dear  boy.  Don't  get  frightened  or  inter- 
fere with  my  plans.  I  know  what  1  am  doing  and  what  I 
want." 

At  that  time  he  wanted  two  things :  a  deputyship  and  the 
cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honour.  These  were  for  him  the 
first  two  stages  of  the  great  ascent  to  which  his  ambitiot> 
pushed  him.  Deputy  he  would  certainly  be  through  the 
influence  of  the  'j'erntorial  Bank,  at  the  head  of  which  he 
stood.  Paganetti  of  Porto-Vecchio  was  often  saying  it  to 
him :  "  When  the  day  arrives,  the  island  will  rise  and  vote 
for  you  as  one  man." 

It  is  not  enough,  however,  to  control  electors  ;  it  is  neces- 
sary also  that  there  be  a  seat  vacant  in  the  Chamber,  and 
the  representation  of  Corsica  was  complete.  One  of  its 
members,  however,  the  old  Popolusca,  infirm  and  in  no 
condition  to  do  his  work,  might  perhaps,  upon  certain 
conditions,  be  walling  to  resign  his  seat.  It  was  a  difficult 
matter  to  negotiate,  but  quite  feasible,  the  old  fellow  hav- 
ing a  numerous  family,  estates  which  produced  little  or 
nothing,  a  palace  in  ruins  at  Bastia,  where  his  children  lived 
on  polenta,  and  a  furnished  apartment  at  Paris  in  an  eight- 
eenth-rate lodging-house.  If  a  hundred  or  two  hundred 
thousand  francs  were  not  a  consideration,  one  ought  to  be 
able  to  obtain  a  favourable  decision  from  this  honourable 
pauper  who,  sounded  by  Paganetti,  would  say  neither  yes 
nor  no,  tempted  by  the  large  sum  of  money,  held  back  by 
the  vainglory  of  his  position.  The  matter  had  reached 
that  point,  it  might  be  decided  from  one  day  to  another. 

As  for  the  cross,  things  were  going  still  better.  The 
Bethlehem  Society  had  assuredly  made  the  devil  of  a  noise 
at  the  Tuileries.  They  were  now  only  waiting  until  after 
the  visit  of  M.  de  la  Perriere  and  his  report,  which  could 
not  be  other  than  favourable,  before  inscribing  on  the  list 
for  the  i6th  March,  on  the  date  of  an  imperial  anniver- 
sary, the  glorious  name  of  Jansoulet.  The  T6th  March; 
that  was  to  say.  within  a  month.  What  would  the  fat  Hem- 
erlingue  find  to  say  of  this  signal  favour,  he  who  for  so 
long  had  had  to  content  himself  with  the  Nisham?  And 
the  Bey,  who  had  been  misled  into  believing  that  Jansoulet 

123  Vol.  18— G 


The  Nabob 

was  cut  by  Parisian  society,  and  the  old  mother,  down  yon- 
der at  Saint-Romans,  ever  so  happy  in  the  successes  of 
her  son !  Was  that  not  worth  a  few  milUons  cleverly  squan- 
dered along  the  path  of  glory  which  the  Nabob  was  tread- 
ing like  a  child,  all  unconscious  of  the  fate  that  lay  waiting 
to  devour  him  at  its  end?  And  in  these  external  joys,  these 
honours,  this  consideration  so  dearly  bought,  was  there  not 
a  compensation  for  all  the  troubles  of  this  Oriental  won 
back  to  European  life,  who  desired  a  home  and  possessed 
only  a  caravansary,  looked  for  a  wife  and  found  only  a 
Levantine  ? 


124 


VIII 

THE   BETHLEHEM   SOCIETY 

Bethlehem!  Why  did  it  give  one  such  a  chill  to  see 
written  in  letters  of  gold  over  the  iron  gate  that  historic 
name,  sweet  and  warm  like  the  straw  of  the  miraculous 
stable!  Perhaps  it  was  partly  to  be  accounted  for  by  the 
melancholy  of  the  landscape,  that  immense  gloomy  plain 
which  stretches  from  Nanterre  to  Saint  Cloud,  broken  only 
by  a  few  clumps  of  trees  or  the  smoke  of  factory  chim- 
neys. Possibly  also  by  the  disproportion  that  existed  be- 
tween the  humble  little  straggling  village  which  you  ex- 
pected to  find  and  the  grandiose  establishment,  this  coun- 
try mansion  in  the  style  of  Louis  XIII,  an  agglomeration 
of  mortar  looking  pink  through  the  branches  of  its  leafless 
park,  ornamented  with  wide  pieces  of  water  thick  with 
green  weeds.  What  is  certain  is  that  as  you  passed  this 
place  your  heart  was  conscious  of  an  oppression.  When 
you  entered  it  was  still  worse.  A  heavy,  inexplicable  silence 
weighed  on  the  house,  and  the  faces  you  might  see  at  the 
windows  had  a  mournful  air  behind  the  little,  old-fashioned 
greenish  panes.  The  goats  scattered  along  the  paths  nibbled 
languidly  at  the  new  spring  grass,  with  "  baas "  at  the 
woman  who  was  tendering  them,  and  looked  bored,  as  she 
followed  the  visitors  with  a  lack-lustre  eye.  A  mournfulness 
was  over  the  place,  like  the  terror  of  a  contagion.  Yet  it 
had  been  a  cheerful  house,  and  one  where  even  recently 
there  had  been  high  junketings.  Replanted  with  timber  for 
the  famous  singer  who  had  sold  it  to  Jenkins,  it  revealed 
clearly  the  kind  of  imagination  which  is  characteristic  of  the 
opera-house  in  a  bridge  flung  over  the  miniature  lake,  with 
its  broken  punt  half  filled  with  mouldy  leaves,  and  in  its 
pavilion  all  of  rockery-work,  garlanded  by  ivy.     It  had  wit- 

125 


The  Nabob 

nessed  gay  scenes,  this  pavilion,  in  the  singer's  time ;  now 
it  looked  on  sad  ones,  for  the  infirmary  was  installed  in  it. 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  whole  establishment  was  one  vast 
infirmary.  The  children  had  hardly  arrived  when  they  fell 
ill,  languished,  and  ended  by  dying,  if  their  parents  did  not 
quickly  take  them  away  and  put  them  again  under  the 
protection  of  home.  The  cure  of  Nanterre  had  to  go  so 
often  to  Bethlehem  with  his  black  vestments  and  his  silver 
cross,  the  undertaker  had  so  many  orders  from  the  house, 
that  it  became  known  in  the  district,  and  indignant  mothers 
shook  their  fists  at  the  model  nurse ;  from  a  long  way  off, 
it  is  true,  for  they  might  chance  to  have  in  their  arms  pink- 
and-white  babies  to  be  preserved  from  all  the  contagions 
of  the  place.  It  was  these  things  that  gave  to  the  poor 
place  so  heart-rending  an  aspect.  A  house  in  which  chil- 
dren die  cannot  be  gay ;  you  cannot  see  trees  break  into 
flower  there,  birds  building,  streams  flowing  like  rippling 
laughter. 

The  thing  seemed  altogether  false.  Excellent  in  itself, 
Jenkins's  scheme  was  difficult,  almost  impracticable  in  its 
application.  Yet,  God  knows,  the  afifair  had  been  started 
and  carried  out  with  the  greatest  enthusiasm  to  the  last 
details,  with  as  much  money  and  as  large  a  staff  as  were 
requisite.  At  its  head,  one  of  the  most  skilful  of  practition- 
ers, M.  Pondevez,  who  had  studied  in  the  Paris  hospitals ; 
and  by  his  side,  to  attend  to  the  more  intimate  needs  of 
the  children,  a  trusty  matron,  Mme.  Polge.  Then  there 
were  nursemaids,  seamstresses,  infirmary-nurses.  And  how 
many  the  arrangements  and  how  thorough  was  the  mainte- 
nance of  the  establishment,  from  the  water  distributed  by 
a  regular  system  from  fifty  taps  to  the  omnibus  trotting 
off  with  jingling  of  its  posting  bells  to  meet  every  train 
of  the  day  at  Rueil  station !  Finally,  magnificent  goats 
Thibetan  goats,  silky,  swollen  with  milk.  In  regard  to 
organization,  everything  was  admirable ;  but  there  was  a 
point  where  all  failed.  This  artificial  feeding,  so  greatly 
extolled  by  the  advertisements,  did  not  agree  with  the 
children.  It  was  a  singular  piece  of  obstinacy,  a  word 
which  seemed  to  have  been  passed  between  them  by  a 

126 


The  Bethlehem  Society- 
signal,  poor  little  things !  for  they  couldn't  yet  speak,  most 
of  them  indeed  were  never  to  speak  at  all :  "  Please,  we 
will  not  suck  the  goats."  And  they  did  not  suck  them, 
they  preferred  to  die  one  after  another  rather  than  suck 
them.  Was  Jesus  of  Bethlehem  in  his  stable  suckled  by 
a  goat?  On  the  contrary,  did  he  not  press  a  woman's 
soft  breast,  on  which  he  could  go  to  sleep  when  he  was 
satisfied?  Who  ever  saw  a  goat  between  the  ox  and  the 
ass  of  the  story  on  that  night  when  the  beasts  spoke  to 
each  other?  Then  why  lie  about  it,  why  call  the  place 
Bethlehem  ? 

The  director  had  been  moved  at  first  by  the  spectacle 
of  so  many  victims.  This  Pondevez,  a  waif  of  the  life  of 
the  "  Quarter,"  mere  student  still  after  twenty  years,  and 
well  known  in  all  the  resorts  of  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel 
under  the  name  of  Pompon,  was  not  an  unkind  man. 
When  he  perceived  the  small  success  of  the  artificial  feed- 
ing, he  simply  brought  in  four  or  five  vigorous  nurses 
from  the  district  around  and  the  children's  appetites  soon 
returned.  This  humane  impulse  went  near  costing  him  his 
place. 

"  Nurses  at  Bethlehem !  "  said  Jenkins,  furious,  when 
he  came  to  pay  his  weekly  visit.  "  Are  you  out  of  your 
mind?  Well!  why  then  have  we  goats  at  all,  and  meadows 
to  pasture  them ;  what  becomes  of  my  idea,  and  the  pam- 
phlets upon  my  idea?  What  happens  to  all  that?  But 
you  are  going  against  my  system.  You  are  stealing  the 
founder's  money." 

*'  All  the  same,  mon  chcr  mattre,"  the  student  tried  to 
reply,  passing  his  hands  through  his  long  red  beard,  "  all 
the  same,  they  will  not  take  this  nourishment." 

"  Well,  then,  let  them  go  without,  but  let  the  principle 
of  artificial  lactation  be  respected.  That  is  the  whole  point. 
I  do  not  wish  to  have  to  repeat  it  to  you  again.  Send  off 
these  wretched  nurses.  For  the  rearing  of  our  children  we 
have  goats'  milk,  cows'  milk  in  case  of  absolute  necessity. 
I  car  make  no  further  concession  in  the  matter." 

He  added,  with  an  assumption  of  his  apostle's  air :  "  We 
are  here  for  the  demonstration  of  a  philanthropic  idea.    It 

127 


The  Nabob 

must  be  made  to  triumph,  even  at  the  price  of  some  sacri- 
fices." 

Pondevez  insisted  no  further.  After  all  the  place  was 
a  good  one,  near  enough  to  Paris  to  allow  of  descents  upon 
Nanterre  of  a  Sunday  from  the  Quarter,  or  to  allow  the 
director  to  pay  a  visit  to  his  old  brasseries.  Mme.  Polge, 
to  whom  Jenkins  always  referred  as  "  our  intelligent  super- 
intendent," and  whom  he  had  placed  there  to  superintend 
everything,  and  chiefly  the  director  himself,  was  not  so  aus- 
tere as  her  prerogatives  might  have  led  one  to  suppose,  and 
submitted  willingly  to  a  few  liqueur-glasses  of  cognac  or 
to  a  game  of  bezique.  He  dismissed  the  nurses,  there- 
fore, and  endeavoured  to  harden  himself  in  advance  to 
everything  that  could  happen.  What  did  happen  ?  A  veri- 
table Massacre  of  the  Innocents.  Consequently  the  few 
parents  in  fairly  easy  circumstances,  workpeople  or  subur- 
ban tradesfolk,  who,  tempted  by  the  advertisements,  had 
severed  themselves  from  their  children,  very  soon  took  them 
home  again,  and  there  only  remained  in  the  establishment 
some  little  unfortunates  picked  up  on  doorsteps  or  in  out- 
of-the-way  places,  sent  from  the  foundling  hospitals,  doomed 
to  all  evil  things  from  their  birth.  As  the  mortality  con- 
tinued to  increase,  even  these  came  to  be  scarce,  and  the 
omnibus  which  had  posted  to  the  railway  station  would  re- 
turn bouncing  and  light  as  an  empty  hearse.  How  long 
would  the  thing  last?  Plow  long  would  the  twenty-five  or 
thirty  little  ones  who  remained  take  to  die  ?  This  was  what 
Monsieur  the  Director,  or  rather,  to  give  him  the  nickname 
which  he  had  himself  invented.  Monsieur  the  Grantor-of- 
Certificates-of-Death  Pondevez,  was  asking  himself  one 
morning  as  he  sat  opposite  Mme.  Polge's  venerable  ringlets, 
taking  a  hand  in  this  lady's  favourite  game. 

"  Yes,  my  good  Mme.  Polge,  what  is  to  become  of  us  ? 
Things  cannot  go  on  much  longer  as  they  are.  Jenkins 
will  not  give  way ;  the  children  are  as  obstinate  as  mules. 
There  is  no  denying  it,  they  will  all  slip  through  our  fingers. 
There  is  the  little  Wallachian — I  mark  the  king,  Mme.  Polge 
— who  may  die  from  one  moment  to  another.  Just  think, 
the  poor  little  chap  for  the  last  three  days  has  had  nothing 

128 


The  Bethlehem  Society 

in  his  stomach.  It  is  useless  for  Jenkins  to  talk.  You  can- 
not improve  children  like  snails  by  making  them  go  hungry. 
It  is  disheartening  all  the  same  not  to  be  able  to  save  one 
of  them.  The  infirmary  is  full.  It  is  really  a  wretched  out- 
look.    Forty  and  bezique." 

A  double  ring  at  the  entrance  gate  interrupted  his 
monologue.  The  omnibus  was  returning  from  the  railway 
station  and  its  wheels  were  grinding  on  the  sand  in  an  un- 
usual manner. 

"  What  an  astonishing  thing,"  remarked  Pondevez,  "  the 
conveyance  is  not  empty." 

Indeed  it  did  draw  up  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  with  a 
certain  pride,  and  the  man  who  got  out  of  it  sprang  up 
the  staircase  at  a  bound.  He  was  a  courier  from  Jenkins 
bearing  a  great  piece  of  news.  The  doctor  would  arrive 
in  two  hours  to  visit  the  Home,  accompanied  by  the  Nabob 
and  a  gentleman  from  the  Tuileries.  He  urgently  enjoined 
that  everything  should  be  ready  for  their  reception.  The 
thing  had  been  decided  at  such  short  notice  that  he  had 
not  had  the  time  to  write ;  but  he  counted  on  M.  Pondevez 
to  do  all  that  was  necessary. 

"  That  is  good ! — necessary !  "  murmured  Pondevez  in 
complete  dismay.  The  situation  was  critical.  This  impor- 
tant visit  was  occurring  at  the  worst  possible  moment,  just 
as  the  system  had  utterly  broken  down.  The  poor  Pompon, 
exceedingly  perplexed,  tugged  at  his  beard,  thoughtfully 
gnawing  wisps  of  it. 

"  Come,"  said  he  suddenly  to  Mme.  Polge,  whose  long 
face  had  grown  still  longer  between  her  ringlets,  "  we  have 
only  one  course  to  take.  We  must  remove  the  infirmary 
and  carry  all  the  sick  into  the  dormitory.  They  will  be 
neither  better  nor  worse  for  passing  another  half-day  there. 
As  for  those  with  the  rash,  we  will  put  them  out  of  the 
way  in  some  corner.  They  are  too  ugly,  they  must  not  be 
seen.  Come  along,  you  up  there !  I  want  every  one  on  the 
bridge." 

The  dinner-bell  being  violently  rung,  immediately  hur- 
ried steps  are  heard.  Seamstresses,  infirmary-nurses,  serv- 
ants,  goatherds,   issue   from   all   directions,   running,   jos- 

129 


The  Nabob 

tling  each  other  across  the  court-yards.  Orders  fly  about, 
cries,  calls ;  but  that  which  dominates  is  the  noise  of  a 
mighty  cleansing,  a  streaming  of  water  as  though  Bethle- 
hem had  been  suddenly  attacked  by  fire.  And  those  groan- 
ings  of  sick  children  snatched  from  the  warmth  of  their 
beds,  all  those  little  screaming  bundles  carried  across  the 
damp  park,  their  coverings  fluttering  through  the  branches, 
powerfully  complete  the  impression  of  a  fire.  At  the  end 
of  two  hours,  thanks  to  a  prodigious  activity,  the  house  is 
ready  from  top  to  bottom  for  the  visit  which  it  is  about 
to  receive,  all  the  staff  at  their  posts,  the  stove  lighted,  the 
goats  picturesquely  sprinkled  over  the  park.  Mme.  Polge 
has  donned  her  green  silk  dress,  the  director  a  costume 
somewhat  less  neglige  than  usual,  but  of  which  the  simplicity 
excluded  all  idea  of  premeditation.  The  Departmental  Sec- 
retary may  come. 

And  here  he  is. 

He  alights  with  Jenkins  and  Jansoulet  from  a  splendid 
coach  with  the  red  and  gold  livery  of  the  Nabob.  Feign- 
ing the  deepest  astonishment,  Pondevez  rushes  forward  to 
meet  his  visitors. 

"  Ah,  M.  Jenkins,  what  an  honour !  What  a  sur- 
prise !  " 

Greetings  are  exchanged  on  the  flight  of  steps,  bows, 
shakings  of  hands,  introductions.  Jenkins  with  his  flowing 
overcoat  wide  open  over  his  loyal  breast,  beams  his  best 
and  most  cordial  smile ;  there  is  a  significant  wrinkle  on 
his  brow,  however.  He  is  uneasy  about  the  surprises  which 
may  be  held  in  store  for  them  by  the  establishment,  of  the 
distressful  condition  of  which  he  is  better  aware  than  any 
one.  If  only  Pondevez  has  taken  proper  precautions. 
Things  begin  well,  at  any  rate.  The  rather  theatrical  view 
from  the  entrance,  of  those  white  fleeces  frisking  about 
among  the  bushes,  have  enchanted  M.  de  la  Perriere,  who 
himself,  with  his  honest  eyes,  his  little  white  beard,  and 
the  continual  nodding  of  his  head,  resembles  a  goat  es- 
caped from  its  tether. 

"  In  the  first  place,  gentlemen,  the  apartment  of  princi- 
pal importance  in  the  house,  the  nursery,"  said  the  director, 

130 


The  Bethlehem  Society 

opening  a  massive  door  at  the  end  of  the  entrance-hall. 
His  guests  follow  him,  go  down  a  few  steps  and  find  them- 
selves in  an  immense,  low  room  with  a  tiled  floor,  formerly 
the  kitchen  of  the  mansion.  The  most  striking  object  on 
entering  is  a  lofty  and  vast  fireplace  built  on  the  antique 
model,  of  red  brick,  with  two  stone  benches  opposite  one 
another  beneath  the  chimney,  and  the  singer's  coat-of-arms 
— an  enormous  lyre  barred  with  a  roll  of  music — carved 
on  the  monumental  pediment.  The  efifect  is  startling ;  but  a 
frightful  draught  comes  from  it,  which  joined  to  the  coldness 
of  the  tiled  floor  and  the  dull  light  admitted  by  the  little  win- 
dows on  a  level  with  the  ground,  may  well  terrify  one  for  the 
health  of  the  children.  But  what  was  to  be  done?  The 
nursery  had  to  be  installed  in  this  insalubrious  spot  on  ac- 
count of  the  sylvan  and  capricious  nurses,  accustomed  to 
the  unconstraint  of  the  stable.  You  only  need  to  notice  the 
pools  of  milk,  the  great  reddish  puddles  drying  up  on  the 
tiles,  to  breathe  in  the  strong  odour  that  meets  you  as  you 
enter,  -a  mingling  of  whey,  of  wet  hair,  and  of  many  other 
things  besides,  in  order  to  be  convinced  of  the  absolute 
necessity  of  this  arrangement. 

The  gloomy-walled  apartment  is  so  large  that  to  the 
visitors  at  first  the  nursery  seems  to  be  deserted.  How- 
ever, at  the  farther  end,  a  group  of  creatures,  bleating, 
moaning,  moving  about,  is  soon  distinguished.  Two  peas- 
ant women,  hard  and  brutalized  in  appearance,  with  dirty 
faces,  two  "  dry-nurses,"  who  well  deserve  the  name,  are 
seated  on  mats,  each  with  an  infant  in  her  arms  and  a  big 
nanny-goat  in  front  of  her,  offering  its  udder  with  legs 
parted.     The  director  seems  pleasantly  surprised. 

"  Truly,  gentlemen,  this  is  lucky.  Two  of  our  children 
are  having  their  little  luncheon.  We  shall  see  how  well 
the  nurses  and  infants  understand  each  other." 

"What  can  he  be  doing?  He  is  mad,"  said  Jenkins  to 
himself  in  consternation. 

But  the  director  on  the  contrary  knows  very  well  what 
he  is  doing  and  has  himself  skilfully  arranged  the  scene, 
selecting  two  patient  and  gentle  beasts  and  two  exceptional 
subjects,  two  little  desperate  mortals  who  want  to  live  at 

131 


The  Nabob 

any  price  and  open  their  mouths  to  swallow,  no  matter 
what  food,  like  young  birds  still  in  the  nest. 

"  Come  nearer,  gentlemen,  and  observe." 

Yes,  they  are  indeed  sucking,  these  little  cherubs !  One 
of  them,  lying  close  to  the  ground,  squeezed  up  under  the 
belly  of  the  goat,  is  going  at  it  so  heartily  that  you  can 
hear  the  gurglings  of  the  warm  milk  descending,  it  would 
seem,  even  into  the  little  limbs  that  kick  with  satisfaction 
at  the  meal.  The  other,  calmer,  lying  down  indolently,  re- 
quires some  little  encouragement  from  his  Auvergnoise  at- 
tendant. 

"  Suck,  will  you  suck  then,  you  little  rogue !  "  And  at 
length,  as  though  he  had  suddenly  come  to  a  decision,  he 
begins  to  drink  with  such  avidity  that  the  woman  leans 
over  to  him,  surprised  by  this  extraordinary  appetite,  and 
exclaims  laughing: 

"  Ah,  the  rascal,  is  he  not  cunning  ? — it  is  his  thumb 
that  he  is  sucking  instead  of  the  goat." 

The  angel  has  hit  on  that  expedient  so  that  he  may  be 
left  in  peace.  The  incident  does  not  create  a  bad  impression. 
M.  de  la  Perriere  is  much  amused  by  this  notion  of  the  nurse 
that  the  child  was  trying  to  take  them  all  in.  He  leaves  the 
nursery,  delighted.  "  Positively  de-e-elighted,"  he  repeats, 
nodding  his  head  as  they  ascend  the  great  staircase  with  its 
echoing  walls  decorated  with  the  horns  of  stags,  leading  to 
the  dormitory. 

Very  bright,  very  airy,  is  this  vast  room,  running  the 
whole  length  of  one  side  of  the  house,  with  numerous  win- 
dows and  cots,  separated  one  from  another  by  a  little  dis- 
tance, hung  with  fleecy  white  curtains  like  clouds.  Women 
go  and  come  through  the  large  arch  in  the  centre,  with  piles 
of  linen  on  their  arms,  or  keys  in  their  hands,  nurses  with  the 
special  duty  of  washing  the  babies. 

Here  too  much  has  been  attempted  and  the  first  impres- 
sion of  the  visitors  is  a  bad  one.  All  this  whiteness  of  muslin, 
this  polished  parquet,  the  brightness  of  the  window-panes  re- 
flecting the  sky  sad  at  beholding  these  things,  seem  to  throw 
into  bold  relief  the  thinness,  the  unhealthy  pallor  of  these 
dying  little  ones,  already  the  colour  of  their  shrouds.     Alas ! 

132 


The  Bethlehem  Society 

the  oldest  are  only  aged  some  six  months,  the  youngest 
barely  a  fortnight,  and  already  there  is  in  all  these  faces, 
these  faces  in  embryo,  a  disappointed  expression,  a  scowling, 
worn  look,  a  suffering  precocity  visible  in  the  numerous 
lines  on  those  little  bald  foreheads,  cramped  by  linen  caps 
edged  with  poor,  narrow  hospital  lace.  What  are  they  suf- 
fering? What  diseases  have  they?  They  have  everything, 
everything  that  one  can  have :  diseases  of  children  and  dis- 
eases of  men.  The  fruit  of  vice  and  poverty,  they  bring 
into  the  world  hideous  phenomena  of  heredity  at  their  very 
birth.  This  one  has  a  perforated  palate,  and  this  great  cop- 
per-coloured patches  on  the  forehead,  all  of  them  rickety. 
Then  they  are  dying  of  hunger.  Notwithstanding  the  spoon- 
fuls of  milk,  of  sweetened  water,  which  are  forced  down 
their  throats,  notwithstanding  the  feeding-bottle  employed 
now  and  then,  though  against  orders,  they  perish  of  inani- 
tion. These  little  creatures,  worn  out  before  birth,  require 
the  most  tender  and  the  most  strengthening  food ;  the  goats 
might  perhaps  be  able  to  give  it,  but  apparently  they  have 
sworn  not  to  suck  the  goats.  And  this  is  what  makes 
the  dormitory  mournful  and  silent,  not  one  of  those  little 
clinched-fisted  tempers,  one  of  those  cries  showing  the  pink 
and  firm  gums  in  which  the  child  makes  trial  of  his  lungs 
and  strength ;  only  a  plaintive  moaning,  as  it  were  the 
disquiet  of  a  soul  that  turns  over  and  over  in  a  little  sick 
body,  without  being  able  to  find  a  comfortable  place  to  rest 
there. 

Jenkins  and  the  director,  who  have  seen  the  bad  impres- 
sion produced  on  their  guests  by  this  inspection  of  the  dor- 
mitory, try  to  put  a  little  life  into  the  situation,  talk  very 
loudly  in  a  good-natured,  complacent,  satisfied  way.  Jen- 
kins shakes  hands  warmly  with  the  superintendent. 

"  Well,  Mme.  Polge,  and  how  are  our  little  nurslings 
getting  on  ?  " 

"  As  you  see,  M.  le  Docteur,"  she  replies,  pointing  to 
the  beds. 

This  tall  Mme.  Polge  is  funereal  in  her  green  dress,  the 
ideal  of  dry-nurses.     She  completes  the  picture. 

But  where  has  Monsieur  the  Departmental  Secretary 

133 


The  Nabob 

gone?     He  has  stopped  before  a  cot  which  he  examines 
sadly,  as  he  stands  aodding  his  head. 

"  Bigre  de  bigrc!  "  says  Pompon  in  a  low  voice  to  Mme. 
Polge.     "  It  is  the  Wallachian." 

The  little  blue  placard  hung  over  the  cot,  as  in  the 
foundling  hospitals,  states  the  child's  nationality :  "  Moldo, 
Wallachian."  What  a  piece  of  ill-luck  that  Monsieur  the 
Secretary's  attention  should  have  been  attracted  to  that  par- 
ticular child !  Oh,  that  poor  little  head  lying  on  the  pillow, 
its  linen  cap  askew,  with  pinched  nostrils,  and  mouth  half 
opened  by  a  quick,  panting  respiration,  the  breathing  of  the 
newly  born,  of  those  also  who  are  about  to  die. 

"  Is  he  ill  ?  "  asks  Monsieur  the  Secretary  softly  of  the 
director,  who  has  come  up  to  him. 

"  Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  the  shameless  Pompon  re- 
plies, and,  advancing  to  the  side  of  the  cot,  he  tries  to  make 
the  little  one  laugh  by  tickling  him  with  his  finger,  straight- 
ens the  pillow,  and  says  in  a  hearty  voice,  somewhat  over- 
charged with  tenderness  :  "  Well,  old  fellow  ?  "  Shaken  out 
of  his  torpor,  escaping  for  a  moment  from  the  shades  which 
already  are  closing  on  him,  the  child  opens  his  eyes  on  those 
faces  leaning  over  him,  glances  at  them  with  a  gloomy  indif- 
ference, then,  returning  to  his  dream  which  he  finds  more 
interesting,  clinches  his  little  wrinkled  hands  and  heaves  an 
elusive  sigh.  Mystery !  Who  shall  say  for  what  end  that 
baby  had  been  born  into  life  ?  To  suffer  for  two  months  and 
to  depart  without  having  seen  anything,  understood  any- 
thing, without  any  one  even  knowing  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

"  How  pale  he  is !  "  murmurs  M.  de  la  Perriere,  very 
pale  himself.  The  Nabob  is  livid  also.  A  cold  breath 
seems  to  have  passed  over  the  place.  The  director  assumes 
an  air  of  unconcern. 

"  It  is  the  reflection.    We  are  all  of  us  green  here." 

"  Yes,  yes,  that  is  so,"  remarks  Jenkins,  "  it  is  the  re- 
flection of  the  lake.  Come  and  look.  Monsieur  the  Secre- 
tary." And  he  draws  him  to  the  window  to  point  out  to 
him  the  large  sheet  of  water  with  its  dipping  willows,  while 
Mme.  Polge  makes  haste  to  draw  over  the  eternal  dream 
of  the  little  Wallachian  the  parted  curtains  of  his  cradle. 

134 


The  Bethlehem  Society 

The  inspection  of  the  establishment  must  be  continued 
very  quickly  in  order  to  destroy  this  unfortunate  impres- 
sion. 

To  begin  with,  M.  de  la  Perriere  is  shown  a  splendid 
laundry,  with  stoves,  drying-rooms,  thermometers,  im- 
mense presses  of  polished  walnut,  full  of  babies'  caps  and 
frocks,  labelled  and  tied  up  in  dozens.  When  the  linen 
has  been  warmed,  the  linen-room  maid  passes  it  out 
through  a  little  door  in  exchange  for  the  number  left  by 
the  nurse.  A  perfect  order  reigns,  one  can  see,  and  every- 
thing, down  to  its  healthy  smell  of  soap-suds,  gives  to  this 
apartment  a  wholesome  and  rural  aspect.  There  is  cloth- 
inar  here  for  five  hundred  children.  That  is  the  number 
which  Bethlehem  can  accommodate,  and  everything  has 
been  arranged  upon  a  corresponding  scale ;  the  vast  phar- 
macy, glittering  with  bottles  and  Latin  inscriptions,  pestles 
and  mortars  of  marble  in  every  corner,  the  hydropathic 
installation,  its  large  rooms  built  of  stone,  with  gleaming 
baths  possessing  a  huge  apparatus  including  pipes  of  all 
dimensions  for  douches,  upward  and  downward,  spray,  jet, 
or  whip-lash,  and  the  kitchens  adorned  with  superb  kettles 
of  copper,  and  with  economical  coal  and  gas  ovens.  Jenkins 
wished  to  institute  a  model  establishment ;  and  he  found  the 
thing  easy,  for  the  work  was  done  on  a  large  scale,  as  it  can 
be  when  funds  are  not  lacking.  You  feel  also  over  it  all 
the  experience  and  the  iron  hand  of  "  our  intelligent  super- 
intendent," to  whom  the  director  cannot  refrain  from  paying 
a  public  tribute.  This  is  the  signal  for  general  congratula- 
tions. M.  de  la  Perriere,  delighted  with  the  manner  in  which 
the  establishment  is  equipped,  congratulates  Dr.  Jenkins 
upon  his  fine  creation,  Jenkins  compliments  his  friend  Pon- 
devez,  who,  in  his  turn,  thanks  the  Departmental  Secretary 
for  having  consented  to  honour  Bethlehem  with  a  visit.  The 
good  Nabob  makes  his  voice  heard  in  this  chorus  of  eulogy, 
finds  a  kind  word  for  each  one,  but  is  a  little  surprised  all  the 
same  that  he  has  not  also  been  congratulated  himself,  since 
they  were  about  it.  It  is  true  that  the  best  of  congratula- 
tions awaits  him  on  the  i6th  March  on  the  front  page  of 
the  Official  Journal  in  a  decree  which  flames  in  advance  be- 

135 


The  Nabob 

fore  his  eyes  and  makes  him  glance  every  now  and  then  at 
his  buttonhole. 

These  pleasant  words  are  exchanged  as  the  party  passes 
along  a  big  corridor  in  which  the  voices  ring  out  in  all  their 
honest  accents ;  but  suddenly  a  frightful  noise  interrupts  the 
conversation  and  the  advance  of  the  visitors.  It  seems  to  be 
made  up  of  the  mewing  of  cats  in  delirium,  of  bellowings, 
of  the  bowlings  of  savages  performing  a  war-dance,  an  ap- 
palling tempest  of  human  cries,  reverberated,  swelled,  and 
prolonged  by  the  echoing  vaults.  It  rises  and  falls,  ceases 
suddenly,  then  goes  on  again  with  an  extraordinary  effect 
of  unanimity. 

Monsieur  the  Director  begins  to  be  uneasy,  makes  an 
inquiry.     Jenkins  rolls  furious  eyes. 

"  Let  us  go  on,"  says  the  director,  rather  anxious  this 
time.    "  I  know  what  it  is." 

He  knows  what  it  is ;  but  M.  de  la  Perriere  wishes  to 
know  also  what  it  is,  and,  before  Pondevez  has  had  the 
time  to  unfasten  it,  he  pushes  open  the  massive  door 
whence  this  horrible  concert  proceeds. 

In  a  sordid  kennel  which  the  great  cleansing  has  passed 
over,  for,  in  fact,  it  was  not  intended  to  be  exhibited,  on 
mattresses  ranged  on  the  floor,  a  dozen  little  wretches  are 
laid,  watched  over  by  an  empty  chair  on  which  the  beginning 
of  a  knitted  vest  lies  with  an  air  of  dignity,  and  by  a  little 
broken  saucepan,  full  of  hot  wine,  boiling  on  a  smoky  wood 
fire.  These  are  the  children  with  ringworm,  with  rashes, 
the  disfavoured  of  Bethlehem,  who  had  been  hidden  in  this 
retired  comer  with  recommendation  to  their  dry-nurse  to 
rock  them,  to  soothe  them,  to  sit  on  them,  if  need  were,  in 
order  to  keep  them  from  crying ;  but  whom  this  country- 
woman, stupid  and  inquisitive,  had  left  alone  there  in  order 
to  see  the  fine  carriage  standing  in  the  court-yard.  Her  back 
turned,  the  infants  had  very  quickly  grown  weary  of  their 
horizontal  position ;  and  then  all  these  little  scrofulous  pa- 
tients raised  their  lusty  concert,  for  they,  by  a  miracle,  are 
strong,  their  malady  saves  and  nourishes  them.  Bewildered 
and  kicking  like  beetles  when  they  are  turned  on  their  backs, 
helping  themselves  with  their  hips  and  their  elbows,  some 

136 


The  Bethlehem  Society 

fallen  on  one  side  and  unable  to  regain  their  balance,  others 
raising  in  the  air  their  little  benumbed,  swaddled  legs,  spon- 
taneously they  cease  their  gesticulations  and  cries  as  they 
see  the  door  open ;  but  M.  de  la  Perriere's  nodding  goatee 
beard  reassures  them,  encourages  them  anew,  and  in  the 
renewed  tumult  the  explanation  given  by  the  director  is 
onlv  heard  with  difficulty :  "  Children  kept  separate — Con- 
tagion— Skin-diseases."  This  is  quite  enough  for  Monsieur 
the  Departmental  Secretary ;  less  heroic  than  Bonaparte  on 
his  visit  to  the  plague-stricken  of  Jaffa,  he  hastens  towards 
the  door,  and  in  his  timid  anxiety,  wishing  to  say  something 
and  yet  not  finding  words,  murmurs  with  an  ineffable  smile : 
"  They  are  char-ar-ming." 

Next,  the  inspection  at  an  end,  see  them  all  gathered 
in  the  salon  on  the  ground  floor,  wdiere  Mme.  Polge  has 
prepared  a  little  luncheon.  The  cellar  of  Bethlehem  is  well 
stocked.  The  keen  air  of  the  table-land,  these  climbs  up  and 
downstairs  have  given  the  old  gentleman  from  the  Tuileries 
an  appetite  such  as  he  has  not  known  for  a  long  time,  so 
that  he  chats  and  laughs  as  if  he  were  at  a  picnic,  and  at  the 
moment  of  departure,  as  they  are  all  standing,  raises  his 
glass,  nodding  his  head,  to  drink,  "  To  Be-Be-Bethlehem !  " 
Those  present  are  moved,  glasses  are  touched,  then,  at  a 
quick  trot,  the  carriage  bears  the  party  away  down  the  long 
avenue  of  limes,  over  which  a  red  and  cold  sun  is  just  set- 
ting. Behind  them  the  park  resumes  its  dismal  silence. 
Great  dark  masses  gather  in  the  depths  of  the  copses,  sur- 
round the  house,  gain  little  by  little  the  paths  and  open 
spaces.  Soon  all  is  lost  in  gloom  save  the  ironical  letters 
embossed  above  the  entrance-gate,  and,  away  over  yonder, 
at  a  first-floor  window,  one  red  and  wavering  spot,  the  light 
of  a  candle  burning  by  the  pillow  of  the  dead  child. 

"  By  a  decree  dated  the  12th  March,  186^,  issued  itpo7t 
the  proposal  of  the  Minister  of  the  Interior,  Monsieur  the 
Doctor  Jenkins,  President  and  Founder  of  the  Bethlehem 
Society,  is  named  a  Chevalier  of  the  Imperial  Order  of  the 
Legion  of  Hotiour.  Great  devotion  to  the  cause  of  hu- 
manity'' 

137 


The  Nabob 

As  he  read  these  words  on  the  front  page  of  the  Official 
Journal,  on  the  morning  of  the  i6th,  the  poor  Nabob  felt 
dazed. 

Was  it  possible? 

Jenkins  decorated,  and  not  he! 

He  read  the  paragraph  twice  over,  distrusting  his  own 
eyes.  His  ears  buzzed.  The  letters  danced  double  before 
his  eyes  with  those  great  red  rings  round  them  which  they 
have  in  strong  sunlight.  He  had  been  so  confident  of  see- 
ing his  name  in  this  place ;  Jenkins,  only  the  evening  be- 
fore, had  repeated  to  him  with  so  much  assurance,  "  It  is 
already  done !  "  that  he  still  thought  his  eyes  must  have  de- 
ceived him.  But  no,  it  was  indeed  Jenkins.  The  blow  was 
heavy,  deep,  prophetic,  as  it  were  a  first  warning  from  des- 
tiny, and  one  that  was  felt  all  the  more  intensely  because  for 
years  this  man  had  been  unaccustomed  to  failure.  Every- 
thing good  in  him  learned  mistrust  at  the  same  time. 

''  Well,"  said  he  to  de  Gery  as  he  came  as  usual  every 
morning  into  his  room,  and  found  him  visibly  affected,  hold- 
ing the  newspaper  in  his  hand,  "you  have  seen?  I  am 
not  in  the  Official." 

He  tried  to  smile,  his  features  puckered  like  those  of  a 
child  restraining  his  tears.  Then,  suddenly,  with  that  frank- 
ness which  was  such  a  pleasing  quality  in  him :  "  It  is  a 
great  disappointment  to  me.  I  was  looking  forward  to  it 
too  confidently." 

The  door  opened  upon  these  words,  and  Jenkins  rushed 
in,  out  of  breath,  stammering,  extraordinarily  agitated. 

"  It  is  an  infamy,  a  frightful  infamy !  The  thing  cannot 
be,  it  shall  not  be !  " 

The  words  stumbled  over  each  other  in  disorder  on  his 
lips,  all  trying  to  get  out  at  once ;  then  he  seemed  to  de- 
spair of  finding  expression  for  his  thoughts  and  in  disgust 
threw  on  the  table  a  small  box  and  a  large  envelope,  both 
bearing  the  stamp  of  the  chancellor's  office. 

"  There  are  my  cross  and  my  brevet.  They  are  yours, 
friend.     I  could  not  keep  them." 

At  bottom,  the  words  did  not  signify  much.  Jansoulet 
adorning  himself  with  Jenkins's  ribbon  might  very  well 

138 


The  Bethlehem  Society- 
have  been  guilty  of  illegality.  But  a  piece  of  theatrical  busi- 
ness is  not  necessarily  logical ;  this  one  brought  about  be- 
tween the  two  men  an  effusion  of  feeling,  embraces,  a  gener- 
ous battle,  at  the  end  of  which  Jenkins  replaced  the  objects 
in  his  pocket,  speaking  of  protests,  letters  to  the  newspapers. 
The  Nabob  was  again  obliged  to  check  him. 

"Be  very  careful  you  do  no  such  thing.  To  begin  with, 
it  would  be  to  injure  my  chances  for  another  time — who 
knows,  perhaps  on  the  15th  of  August,  which  will  soon  be 
here." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,"  said  Jenkins,  jumping  at  this  idea,  and 
stretching  out  his  arm  as  in  the  Oath  of  David,  "  I  solemnly 
swear  it." 

The  matter  was  dropped  at  this  point.  At  luncheon  the 
Nabob  was  as  gay  as  usual.  This  good  humour  was  main- 
tained all  day,  and  de  Gery,  for  whom  the  scene  had  been  a 
revelation  of  the  true  Jenkins,  the  explanation  of  the  ironies 
and  the  restrained  wrath  of  Felicia  Ruys  whenever  she  spoke 
of  the  doctor,  asked  himself  in  vain  how  he  could  enlighten 
his  dear  patron  about  such  hypocrisy.  He  should  have  been 
aware,  however,  that  in  southerners,  with  all  their  super- 
ficiality and  effusion,  there  is  no  blindness,  no  enthusiasm, 
so  complete  as  to  remain  insensible  before  the  wisdom  of 
reflection.  In  the  evening  the  Nabob  had  opened  a  shabby 
little  letter-case,  worn  at  the  corners,  in  which  for  ten  years 
he  had  been  accustomed  to  work  out  the  calculations  of  his 
millions,  writing  down  in  hieroglyphics  understood  only  by 
himself  his  receipts  and  expenditures.  He  buried  himself 
in  his  accounts  for  a  moment,  then  turning  to  de  Gery : 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  am  doing,  my  dear  Paul?"  he 
asked. 

"  No,  sir." 

"  I  am  just  calculating " — and  his  mocking  glance 
thoroughly  characteristic  of  his  race,  rallied  the  good  nature 
of  his  smile — "  I  am  just  calculating  that  I  have  spent  four 
hundred  and  thirty  thousand  francs  to  get  a  decoration  for 
Jenkins." 

Four  hundred  and  thirty  thousand  francs!  And  that 
was  not  the  end. 

139 


IX 

BONNE   MAMAN 

Paul  de  Gery  went  three  times  a  week  in  the  evening 
to  take  his  lesson  in  bookkeeping  in  the  Joyeuses'  dining- 
room,  not  far  from  that  Httle  parlour  in  which  he  had  seen 
the  family  the  first  day,  and  while  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
his  teacher  he  was  being  initiated  into  all  the  mysteries  of 
"  debtor  and  creditor,"  he  used  to  listen,  in  spite  of  himself, 
for  the  light  sounds  coming  from  the  industrious  group  be- 
hind the  door,  with  thoughts  dwelling  regretfully  on  the 
vision  of  all  those  pretty  brows  bent  in  the  lamplight.  M. 
Joyeuse  never  said  a  word  of  his  daughters ;  jealous  of  their 
charms  as  a  dragon  watching  over  beautiful  princesses  in  a 
tower,  and  excited  by  the  fantastic  imaginings  of  his  ex- 
cessive affection  for  them,  he  would  answer  with  marked 
brevity  the  inquiries  of  his  pupil  regarding  the  health  of  "  the 
young  ladies,"  so  that  at  last  the  young  man  ceased  to  men- 
tion them. 

He  was  surprised,  however,  at  not  once  seeing  that 
Bonne  Maman  whose  name  was  constantly  recurring  in 
the  conversation  of  M.  Joyeuse,  entering  into  the  least 
details  of  his  existence,  hovering  over  the  household  like 
the  emblem  of  its  perfect  ordering  and  of  its  peace. 

So  great  a  reserve  on  the  part  of  a  venerable  lady  who 
must  assuredly  have  passed  the  age  at  which  the  interest  of 
young  men  is  to  be  feared,  seemed  to  him  exaggerated.  The 
lessons,  however,  were  good  ones,  given  with  great  clear- 
ness, the  teacher  having  an  excellent  system  of  demonstra- 
tion, and  only  one  fault,  that  of  becoming  absorbed  in 
silences,  broken  by  sudden  starts  and  exclamations  let  off 
like  rockets.  Apart  from  this,  he  was  the  best  of  masters, 
intelligent,  patient,  and  conscientious,  and  Paul  learned  to 

140 


Bonne  Maman 

know  his  way  through  the  complex  labyrinth  of  commercial 
books  and  resigned  himself  to  ask  nothing  beyond. 

One  evening,  towards  nine  o'clock,  as  the  young  man 
had  risen  to  go,  M.  Joyeuse  asked  him  if  he  would  do  him 
the  honour  of  taking  a  cup  of  tea  with  his  family,  a  custom 
dating  from  the  time  when  Mme.  Joyeuse,  nee  de  Saint- 
Amand,  was  alive,  she  having  been  used  to  receive  her 
friends  on  Thursdays.  Since  her  death  and  the  change  in 
the  financial  position,  the  friends  had  become  dispersed ;  but 
this  little  weekly  function  had  been  kept  up. 

Paul  having  accepted,  the  good  old  fellow  opened  the 
door  and  called : 

"  Bonne  Maman!" 

An  alert  footstep  in  the  passage,  and  immediately  the 
face  of  a  girl  of  twenty,  in  a  halo  of  abundant  brown  hair, 
made  its  appearance. 

De  Gery,  stupefied,  looked  at  M.  Joyeuse. 

'^  Bonne  Maman  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  name  that  we  gave  her  when  she  was  a 
little  girl.  With  her  frilled  cap,  her  authority  as  the  eldest 
child,  she  had  a  quaint  little  air.  We  thought  her  like  her 
grandmother.    The  name  has  clung  to  her." 

From  the  honest  fellow's  tone  as  he  spoke  thus,  one 
felt  that  to  him  this  grandparent's  title  applied  to  such  an 
embodiment  of  attractive  youth  seemed  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world.  Every  one  else  thought  as  he  did  on 
the  point;  both  her  sisters,  who  had  hastened  to  their  father's 
side,  grouping  themselves  round  him  somewhat  as  in  the 
portrait  exhibited  in  the  window  on  the  ground  floor,  and 
the  old  serv^ant  who  placed  on  the  table  in  the  little  drawing- 
room  a  magnificent  tea-service,  a  relic  of  the  former  splen- 
dours of  the  household.  Every  one  called  the  girl  "  Bonne 
Maman  "  without  her  ever  once  having  grown  tired  of  it, 
the  influence  of  that  sacred  title  touching  the  affection  of 
each  one  with  a  deference  which  flattered  her  and  gave  to 
her  ideal  authority  a  singular  gentleness  of  protection. 

Whether  or  not  it  were  by  reason  of  this  appellation  of 
grandmother  which  as  a  child  he  had  learned  to  reverence, 
de  Gery  felt  an  inexpressible  attraction  towards  this  young 

141 


The  Nabob 

girl.  It  was  not  like  the  sudden  shock  which  he  had  received 
from  that  other,  that  emotional  agitation  in  which  were  min- 
gled the  desire  to  flee,  to  escape  from  a  possession  and 
the  persistent  melancholy  of  the  morrow  of  a  festivity,  extin- 
guished candles,  the  lost  refrains  of  songs,  perfumes  vanished 
into  the  night.  In  the  presence  of  this  young  girl  as  she 
stood  superintending  the  family  table,  seeing  if  anything 
were  wanting,  enveloping  her  children,  her  grandchildren, 
with  the  active  tenderness  of  her  eyes,  there  came  to  him  a 
longing  to  know  her,  to  be  counted  among  her  old  friends, 
to  confide  to  her  things  which  he  confessed  only  to  himself ; 
and  when  she  offered  him  his  cup  of  tea  without  any  of  the 
mincings  of  society  or  drawing-room  affectations,  he  would 
have  liked  to  say  with  the  rest  a  "  Thank  you.  Bonne  Ma- 
man,"  in  which  he  would  have  put  all  his  heart. 

Suddenly,  a  cheerful  knock  at  the  door  made  everybody 
start. 

"  Ah,  here  comes  M.  Andre.  Elise,  a  cup  quickly. 
Jaia,  the  little  cakes,"  At  the  same  time,  Mile.  Henriette, 
the  third  of  M.  Joyeuse's  daughters,  who  had  inherited  from 
her  mother,  nee  de  Saint-Amand,  a  certain  instinct  for  soci- 
ety, observing  the  number  of  visitors  who  seemed  likely  to 
crowd  their  rooms  that  evening,  rushed  to  light  the  two 
candles  on  the  piano. 

"  My  fifth  act  is  finished,"  cried  the  newcomer  as  he  en- 
tered, then  he  stopped  short.  "  Ah,  pardon,"  and  his  face 
assumed  a  rather  discomfited  expression  in  the  presence  of 
the  stranger.  M.  Joyeuse  introduced  them  to  each  other: 
"  M.  Paul  de  Gery— M.  Andre  Maranne,"  not  without  a 
certain  solemnity.  He  remembered  the  receptions  held  for- 
merly by  his  wife,  and  the  vases  on  the  chimneypiece,  the 
two  large  lamps,  the  what-not;  the  easy  chairs  grouped  in 
a  circle  had  an  air  of  joining  in  this  illusion,  and  seemed 
more  brilliant  by  reason  of  this  unaccustomed  throng. 

"  So  your  play  is  finished?  " 

"  Finished,  M.  Joyeuse,  and  I  hope  to  read  it  to  you 
one  of  these  evenings." 

"  Oh,  yes,  M.  Andre.  Oh,  yes,"  said  all  the  girls  in 
chorus. 

142 


Bonne  Maman 

Their  neighbour  was  in  the  habit  of  writing  for  the 
stage,  and  no  one  here  doubted  of  his  success.  Photog- 
raphy, in  any  case,  promised  fewer  profits.  Clients  were 
very  rare,  passers-by  Httle  disposed  to  business.  To  keep 
his  hand  in  and  to  save  his  new  apparatus  from  rusting,  M. 
Andre  was  accustomed  to  practise  anew  on  the  family  of 
his  friends  on  each  succeeding  Sunday.  They  lent  them- 
selves to  his  experiments  with  unequalled  long-suffering; 
the  prosperity  of  this  suburban  photographer's  business  was 
for  them  all  an  affair  of  amour  propre,  and  awakened,  even 
in  the  girls,  that  touching  confraternity  of  feeling  which 
draws  together  the  destinies  of  people  as  insignificant  in 
importance  as  sparrows  on  a  roof.  Andre  Maranne,  with 
the  inexhaustible  resources  of  his  great  brow  full  of  illusion, 
used  to  explain  without  bitterness  the  indifference  of  the 
public.  Sometimes  the  season  was  unfavourable,  or,  again> 
people  were  complaining  of  the  bad  state  of  business  gener- 
ally, and  he  would  always  end  with  the  same  consoling  re- 
flection, "  When  Revolt  is  produced !  "  That  was  the  title 
of  his  play. 

"  It  is  surprising  all  the  same,"  said  the  fourth  of  M. 
Joyeuse's  daughters,  twelve  years  old,  with  her  hair  in  a 
pigtail,  "  it  is  surprising  that  with  such  a  good  balcony  so 
little  business  should  result." 

"  And,  then,  many  people  are  constantly  passing  down 
this  street,"  adds  Elise  with  assurance.  Bonne  Maman 
points  out  to  her  with  a  smile  that  the  same  is  still  more 
true  of  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens. 

"  Ah,  if  he  were  established  on  the  Boulevard  des  Ita- 
liens," remarks  M.  Joyeuse  thoughtfully,  and  he  is  launched 
forth ! — riding  his  chimera  till  it  is  brought  to  the  ground 
suddenly  with  a  gesture  and  these  words  uttered  sadly : 
"  Closed  on  account  of  bankruptcy."  In  the  space  of  a 
moment  the  terrible  visionary  has  just  installed  his  friend 
in  splendid  quarters  on  the  Boulevard,  where  he  gains  enor- 
mous sums  of  money,  at  the  same  time,  however,  increasing 
his  expenditure  to  so  disproportionate  an  extent  that  a  fear- 
ful failure  in  a  few  months  engulfs  both  photographer  and 
his  photography.     They  laugh  heartily  when  he  gives  this 

143 


The  Nabob 

explanation ;  but  all  agree  that  the  Rue  Saint-Ferdinand, 
although  less  brilliant,  is  much  more  to  be  depended  upon 
than  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens.  Besides,  it  happens  to  be 
quite  near  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and  if  once  the  fashion- 
able world  got  into  the  way  of  passing  through  it —  That 
exalted  society  which  was  so  much  sought  by  her  mother, 
is  Mile.  Henriette's  fixed  idea,  and  she  is  astonished  that  the 
thought  of  receiving  "  le  high-life  "  in  his  little  apartment 
on  the  fifth  floor  makes  their  neighbour  laugh.  The  other 
week,  however,  a  carriage  with  livery  had  called  on  him. 
Only  just  now,  too,  he  had  a  very  "  swell "  visit. 

"  Oh,  quite  a  great  lady !  "  interrupts  Bonne  Maman. 
*'  We  were  at  the  window  on  the  lookout  for  father.  We 
saw  her  alight  from  her  carriage  and  look  at  the  show- 
frame;  we  made  sure  that  her  visit  was  for  you." 

"  It  was  for  me,"  said  Andre,  a  little  embarrassed. 

"  For  a  moment  we  were  afraid  that  she  was  going  to 
pass  on  like  so  many  others,  on  account  of  your  five  flights 
of  stairs.  So  all  four  of  us  tried  to  attract  her  without  her 
knowing^  it  by  the  magnetism  of  our  four  staring  pairs  of 
eyes.  We  drew  her  gently  by  the  feathers  of  her  hat  and 
the  laces  of  her  cape.  '  Come  up  then,  madame,  come  up,* 
and  finally  she  entered.  There  is  so  much  magnetism  in 
eyes  that  are  kindly  disposed." 

Magnetism  she  certainly  had,  the  dear  cr'^ature,  not  only 
in  her  glances,  indeterminate  of  colour^  veiled  or  gay  like 
the  sky  of  her  Paris,  but  in  her  voice,  in  <^he  draping  of 
her  dress,  in  everything  about  her,  even  to  the  long  curl, 
falling  over  the  neck  erect  and  delicate  as  a  statue's. 

Tea  having  been  served,  while  the  gentlemen  finished 
their  cups  and  talked — old  Joyeuse  was  always  very  long 
over  everything  that  he  did,  by  reason  of  his  sudden  expedi- 
tions to  the  moon — the  girls  brought  out  their  work,  the 
table  became  covered  with  wicker  baskets,  embroideries, 
pretty  wools  that  rejuvenated  with  their  bright  tints  the 
faded  flowers  of  the  old  carpet,  and  the  group  of  the  other 
evening  gathered  once  more  within  the  bright  circle  de- 
fined by  the  lamp-shade,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  Paul 
de  Gery.    It  was  the  first  evening  of  the  kind  that  he  had 

144 


Bonne  Maman 

spent  in  Paris ;  it  recalled  to  him  others  of  a  like  sort  very 
far  away,  lulled  by  the  same  innocent  laughter,  the  peaceful 
sound  produced  by  scissors  as  they  are  put  down  on  the 
table,  by  a  needle  as  it  pierces  through  linen,  or  the  rustle 
of  a  page  turned  over,  and  dear  faces,  disappeared  for  ever, 
gathered  also  around  the  family  lamp,  alas!  so  abruptly 
extinguished. 

Having  been  admitted  to  this  charming  intimacy,  he  re- 
mained in  it,  took  his  lessons  in  the  presence  of  the  girls 
and  was  encouraged  to  chat  with  them  when  the  good  old 
man  closed  his  big  book.  Here  everything  rested  him 
after  the  whirl  of  that  life  into  which  he  was  thrown  by  the 
luxurious  social  existence  of  the  Nabob;  he  came  to  renew 
his  strength  in  this  atmosphere  of  honesty,  of  simplicity, 
tried,  too,  to  find  healing  there  for  the  wounds  with  which 
a  hand  more  indifferent  than  cruel  stabbed  his  heart  merci- 
lessly. 

"  Some  women  have  hated  me,  other  women  have  loved 
me.  She  who  has  hurt  me  most  never  either  loved  or  hated 
me."  Paul  had  met  that  woman  of  whom  Henri  Heine 
speaks.  Felicia  was  full  of  welcome  and  cordiality  for  him. 
There  was  no  one  whom  she  treated  with  more  favour.  She 
used  to  reserve  for  him  a  special  smile  wherein  one  felt  the 
kindliness  of  an  artist's  eye  arrested  by  and  dwelling  on  a 
pleasing  tvpe,  and  the  satisfaction  of  a  jaded  mind  amused 
by  anything  new,  however  simple  in  appearance  it  may  be. 
She  liked  that  reserve,  suggestive  in  a  southerner,  the  hon- 
esty of  that  judgment,  independent  of  every  artistic  or  social 
formula  and  enlivened  by  a  touch  of  provincial  accent. 
These  things  were  a  change  for  her  from  the  zigzag  stroke 
of  the  thumb  illustrating  a  eulogy  with  its  gesture  of  the 
studio,  from  the  compliments  of  comrades  on  the  way  in 
which  she  would  snub  some  old  fellow,  or  again  from 
those  afifected  admirations,  from  the  "  char-ar-ming,  very 
nice  indeed's  "  with  which  young  men  about  town,  suck- 
ing the  knobs  of  their  canes,  were  accustomed  to  regale 
her.  This  young  man  at  any  rate  did  not  say  such  things 
as  that  to  her.  She  had  nicknamed  him  Minerva,  on  ac- 
count of  his  apparent  tranquility  and  the  regularity  of  his 

145 


The  Nabob 

profile ;  and  the  moment  she  saw  him,  however  far-off,  she 
would  call : 

"  Ah,  here  comes  Minerva.  Hail,  beautiful  Minerva ! 
Put  down  your  helmet  and  let  us  have  a  chat." 

But  this  familiar,  almost  fraternal,  tone  convinced  the 
voung  man  of  the  uselessness  of  his  love.  He  was  deeply 
conscious  that  he  would  make  no  further  advance  into  that 
feminine  comradeship  in  which  tenderness  was  wanting,  and 
that  he  lost  each  day  something  of  his  charm — the  charm 
of  the  unforeseen — in  the  eyes  of  that  woman  bom  weary, 
who  seemed  to  have  already  lived  her  life  and  found  in  all 
that  she  heard  or  saw  the  insipidity  of  a  repetition.  Fe- 
licia was  bored.  Her  art  alone  could  distract  her,  carry  her 
away,  transport  her  into  a  dazzling  fairyland,  whence  she 
would  fall  back  worn  out,  surprised  each  time  by  this  awak- 
ening like  a  physical  fall.  She  used  to  draw  a  comparison 
between  herself  and  those  jelly-fish  whose  transparent  bril- 
liancy, so  much  alive  in  the  cool  movements  of  the  waves, 
drift  to  their  death  on  the  shore  in  little  gelatinous  pools. 
During  those  times  void  of  inspiration,  when  the  artist's 
hand  was  heavy  on  his  instrument,  Felicia,  deprived  of  the 
one  moral  support  of  her  intellectual  being,  became  unso- 
ciable, unapproachable,  a  tormenting  mocker — the  revenge 
taken  of  human  weakness  on  the  tired  brains  of  genius. 
After  having  brought  tears  to  the  eyes  of  every  one  who 
cared  for  her,  raking  up  painful  recollections  or  enervating 
anxieties,  she  reached  the  lowest  depths  of  her  fatigue,  and 
as  there  was  always  some  fun  in  her,  even  in  her  saddest 
moods,  she  would  give  vent  to  the  remainder  of  her  ennui 
in  a  kind  of  caged  wild-beast's  howl,  which  she  called  "  the 
cry  of  the  jackal  in  the  desert,"  and  which  used  to  make  the 
good  Crenmitz  turn  pale. 

Poor  Felicia!  That  life  of  hers  was  indeed  a  frightful 
desert  when  art  did  not  beguile  it  with  its  illusions ;  a  desert 
mournful  and  flat,  where  everything  was  lost,  reduced  to 
one  level,  beneath  the  same  monotonous  immensity,  the 
naive  love  of  a  child  of  twenty,  a  passionate  duke's  caprice, 
in  which  all  was  overwhelmed  by  an  arid  sand  driven  by 
blasting  fates.    Paul  was  conscious  of  that  void,  desired  to 

146 


Bonne  Maman 

escape  it ;  but  something  held  him  back,  like  a  weight  which 
unrolls  a  chain,  and  in  spite  of  the  calumnies  he  heard,  and 
notwithstanding  the  odd  whims  of  the  strange  creature,  he 
dallied  deliciously  after  her,  at  the  price  of  bearing  away 
with  him  from  this  long  lover's  contemplation  only  the 
despair  of  a  believer  reduced  to  the  adoring  of  images 
alone. 

The  refuge  lay  down  there,  in  that  remote  quarter  of 
the  town  where  the  wind  blew  so  hard,  yet  without  prevent- 
ing the  flame  from  mounting  white  and  straight — it  was 
the  family  circle  presided  over  by  Bonne  Maman.  Oh! 
she  at  least  was  not  bored,  she  never  uttered  the  cry  of 
the  "  jackal  in  the  desert."  Her  life  was  far  too  full ;  the 
father  to  encourage,  to  sustain,  the  children  to  teach,  all 
the  material  cares  of  a  home  where  the  mother's  hand  is 
wanting,  those  preoccupations  that  awake  with  the  dawn 
and  are  put  to  sleep  by  the  evening,  unless  indeed  it  bring 
them  back  in  dream,  one  of  those  devotions,  tireless  but 
without  apparent  effort,  very  pleasant  for  poor  human  ego- 
tism, because  they  dispense  from  all  gratitude  and  hardly 
make  themselves  felt,  so  light  is  their  hand.  She  was  not 
the  courageous  daughter  who  works  to  support  her  parents, 
gives  private  lessons  from  morning  to  night,  forgets  in  the 
excitement  of  a  profession  all  the  troubles  of  the  household. 
No,  she  had  understood  her  task  in  a  different  sense,  a 
sedentary  bee  restricting  her  cares  to  the  hive,  without  once 
humming  out  of  doors  in  the  open  air  among  the  flowers. 
A  thousand  functions  :  tailoress,  milliner,  mender  of  clothes, 
bookkeeper  also  for  M.  Joyeuse,  who,  incapable  of  all  re- 
sponsibility, left  to  her  the  free  disposal  of  their  means,  to  be 
pianoforte-teacher,  governess. 

As  it  happens  in  families  that  have  been  in  a  good  posi- 
tion, Aline,  as  the  eldest  daughter,  had  been  educated  at  one 
of  the  best  boarding-schools  in  Paris.  Elise  had  been  with 
her  there  for  two  years ;  but  the  last  two,  born  too  late,  and 
sent  to  small  day-schools  in  the  locality,  had  all  their  studies 
yet  to  complete,  and  this  was  no  easy  matter,  the  youngest 
laughing  upon  every  occasion  from  sheer  good  health, 
warbling  like  a  lark  intoxicated  with  the  delight  of  green 

147.  Vol.  18— II 


The  Nabob 

corn,  and  flying  away  far  out  of  sight  of  desk  and  exer 
cises,  while  Mile.  Henriette,  ever  haunted  by  her  ideas  oV 
grandeur,  her  love  of  luxurious  things,  took  to  work  hardly 
less  unwillingly.  This  young  person  of  fifteen,  to  whom 
her  father  had  transmitted  something  of  his  imaginative  fac- 
ulties, was  already  arranging  her  life  in  advance  and  declared 
formally  that  she  should  marry  one  of  the  nobility,  and 
would  never  have  more  than  three  children :  '*  A  boy  to 
inherit  the  name  and  two  little  girls — so  as  to  be  able  to 
dress  them  alike." 

"  Yes,  that's  right,"  Bonne  Maman  would  say,  "  you  shall 
dress  them  alike.  In  the  meantime,  let  us  attend  to  our 
participles  a  little." 

But  the  one  who  caused  the  most  concern  was  Elise, 
with  her  examination  taken  thrice  without  success,  always 
failing  in  history  and  preparing  herself  anew,  seized  by  a 
deep  fear  and  a  mistrust  of  herself  which  made  her  carry 
about  with  her  everywhere  and  open  every  moment  that 
unfortunate  history  of  France,  in  the  omnibus,  in  the  street, 
even  at  the  luncheon-table ;  she  was  already  a  grown  girl 
and  very  pretty,  and  she  no  longer  possessed  that  little 
mechanical  memory  of  childhood  wherein  dates  and  events 
lodge  themselves  for  the  whole  of  one's  life.  Beset  by 
other  preoccupations,  the  lesson  was  forgotten  in  an  instant, 
despite  the  apparent  application  of  the  pupil,  with  her  long 
lashes  fringing  her  eyes,  her  curls  sweeping  over  the  pages, 
and  her  rosy  mouth  animated  by  a  little  quiver  of  atten- 
tion, repeating  ten  times  in  succession :  "  Louis,  surnamed 
le  Hutin,  1314-1316;  Philip  V,  surnamed  the  Long,  1316- 
1322.  Ah,  Bonne  Maman,  it's  no  good;  I  shall  never  know 
them."  Whereupon  Bonne  Maman  would  come  to  her 
assistance,  help  her  to  concentrate  her  attention,  to  store  up 
a  few  of  those  dates  of  the  Middle  Ages,  barbarous  and  sharp 
as  th^  helmets  of  the  warriors  of  the  period.  And  in  the 
intervals  of  these  occupations,  of  this  general  and  constant 
superintendence,  she  yet  found  time  to  do  some  pretty 
needlework,  to  extract  from  her  work-basket  some  delicate 
crochet  lace  or  the  piece  of  tapestry  on  which  she  was^  en- 
gaged and  to  which  she  clung  as  closely  as  the  young  Elise 

148 


Bonne  Maman 

to  her  history  of  France.  Even  when  she  talked,  her  fingers 
never  remained  unoccupied  for  a  moment. 

"  Do  you  never  take  any  rest?"  said  de  Gery  to  her, 
as  she  counted  under  her  breath  the  stitches  of  her  tapestry, 
"  three,  four,  five,''  to  secure  the  right  variation  in  the 
shading  of  its  colours. 

"  But  this  is  a  rest  from  work,"  she  answered.  "  You 
men  cannot  understand  how  good  needlework  is  for  a  wom- 
an's mind.  It  gives  order  to  the  thoughts,  fixes  by  a  stitch 
the  moment  that  passes  what  would  otherwise  pass  with  it. 
And  how  many  griefs  are  calmed,  anxieties  forgotten,  thanks 
to  this  wholly  physical  act  of  attention,  to  this  repetition  of 
an  even  movement,  in  which  one  finds — of  necessity  and 
very  quickly — the  equilibrium  of  one's  whole  being.  It  does 
not  hinder  me  from  following  the  conversation  around  me, 
from  listening  to  you  still  better  than  I  should  if  I  were 
doing  nothing.    Three,  four,  five." 

Oh,  yes,  she  listened.  That  was  apparent  in  the  anima- 
tion of  her  face,  in  the  way  in  which  she  would  suddenly 
straighten  herself  as  she  sat,  needle  in  air,  the  thread  taut 
over  her  raised  little  finger.  Then  she  would  quickly  re- 
sume her  work,  sometimes  after  putting  in  a  thoughtful 
word,  which  agreed  generally  with  the  opinions  of  friend 
Paul. 

An  affinity  of  nature,  responsibilities  and  duties  simi- 
lar in  character,  drew  these  two  young  people  together,  in- 
terested each  of  them  in  the  other's  occupations.  She 
knew  the  names  of  his  two  brothers  Pierre  and  Louis,  his 
plans  for  their  future  when  they  should  have  left  school. 
Pierre  wished  to  be  a  sailor.  "  Oh,  no,  not  a  sailor,"  Bonne 
Maman  would  say,  "  it  will  be  much  better  for  him  to  come 
to  Paris  with  you."  And  when  he  admitted  that  he  was 
afraid  of  Paris  for  them,  she  laughed  at  his  fears,  called 
him  provincial,  full  of  aflfection  for  the  city  in  which  she 
had  been  born,  in  which  she  had  grown  to  chaste  young 
womanhood,  and  that  gave  her  in  return  those  vivacities, 
those  natural  refinements,  that  jesting  good-humour  which" 
incline  one  to  believe  that  Paris,  with  its  rain,  its  fogs,  its 
sky  which  is  no  sky,  is  the  veritable  fatherland  of  woman, 

149 


The  Nabob 

whose  nerves  it  heals  gently  and  whose  qualities  of  intelli- 
gence and  patience  it  develops. 

Each  day  Paul  de  Gery  came  to  appreciate  Mile.  Aline 
better — he  was  the  only  person  in  the  house  who  so  called 
her — and,  strange  circumstance,  it  was  Felicia  who  com- 
pleted the  cementing  of  their  intimacy.  What  relations 
could  there  exist  between  the  artist's  daughter,  moving  in 
the  highest  spheres,  and  this  little  middle-class  girl  buried 
in  the  depths  of  a  suburb?  Relations  of  childhood  and  of 
friendship,  common  recollections,  the  great  court-yard  of  the 
Institution  Belin,  where  they  had  played  together  for  three 
years.  Paris  is  full  of  these  juxtapositions.  A  name  uttered 
by  chance  in  the  course  of  conversation  brought  out  sud- 
denly the  bewildered  question : 

"You  know  her  then?" 

"  Do  I  know  Felicia  ?  Why,  our  desks  were  next  each 
other  in  the  first  form.  We  had  the  same  garden.  Such 
a  nice  girl,  and  so  handsome  and  clever !  " 

And,  observing  the  pleasure  with  which  she  was  lis- 
tened to.  Aline  used  to  recall  the  times  which  already  formed 
a  past  for  her,  seductive  and  melancholy  like  all  pasts.  She 
was  very  much  alone  in  life,  the  little  Felicia.  On  Thurs- 
days, when  the  visitors'  names  were  called  out  in  the  parlour, 
there  was  no  one  for  her ;  except  from  time  to  time  a  good 
but  rather  absurd  lady,  formerly  a  dancer,  it  was  said,  whom 
Felicia  called  the  Fairy.  In  the  same  way  she  used  to  have 
pet  names  for  all  the  people  she  cared  for  and  whom  she 
transformed  in  her  imaginations.  In  the  holidays  they  used 
to  see  each  other.  Mme.  Joyeuse,  while  she  refused  to  allow 
Aline  to  visit  the  studio  of  M.  Ruys,  used  to  invite  Felicia 
over  for  whole  days,  very  short  days  they  seemed,  minglings 
of  study,  music,  dual  dreams,  young  intimate  conversations. 
"  Oh,  when  she  used  to  talk  to  me  of  her  art,  with  that  en- 
thusiasm which  she  put  into  everything,  how  delighted  I 
was  to  listen  to  her!  How  many  things  I  have  understood 
through  her,  of  which  I  should  never  have  had  any  idea. 
Even  now  when  we  go  to  the  Louvre  with  papa,  or  to  the 
exhibition  of  the  ist  of  May,  that  special  feeling  I  have 
about  a  beautiful  piece  of  sculpture,  a  good  picture,  carries 

150 


Bonne  Maman 

me  back  immediately  to  Felicia.  In  my  early  girlhood  she 
represented  art  to  me,  and  it  corresponded  with  her  beauty. 
Her  nature  was  a  little  vague,  but  so  kind,  I  always  felt  she 
was  something  superior  to  myself,  that  bore  me  to  great 
heights  without  frightening  me.  Suddenly  she  stopped  com- 
ing to  see  me.  I  wrote  to  her;  no  reply.  Later  on,  fame 
came  -to  her ;  to  me  great  sorrows,  absorbing  duties.  And 
of  all  that  friendship,  which  was  very  deep,  however,  since 
I  cannot  speak  of  it  without — '  three,  four,  five ' — nothing 
now  remains  except  old  memories  like  dead  ashes." 

Bending  over  her  work,  the  brave  girl  made  haste  to 
count  her  stitches,  to  imprison  her  regret  in  the  capricious 
designs  of  her  tapestry,  while  de  Gery,  moved  as  he  heard 
the  testimony  of  those  pure  lips  against  the  calumnies  of 
rejected  young  dandies  or  of  jealous  comrades,  felt  himself 
raised,  restored  to  the  proud  dignity  of  his  love.  This  sen- 
sation was  so  sweet  to  him  that  he  returned  in  search  of 
it  very  often,  not  only  on  the  evenings  of  the  lessons,  but 
on  other  evenings,  too,  and  almost  forgot  to  go  to  see 
Felicia  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  Aline  talk  about  her. 

One  evening,  as  he  was  leaving  the  Joyeuses'  home, 
Paul  met  the  neighbour,  M.  Andre,  on  the  landing,  who  was 
waiting  for  him  and  took  his  arm  feverishly. 

"  Monsieur  de  Gery,"  he  said  in  a  trembling  voice, 
with  eyes  that  glittered  behind  their  spectacles,  the  one 
feature  of  his  face  that  was  visible  in  the  darkness,  "  I  have 
an  explanation  to  ask  from  you.  Will  you  come  up  to  my 
rooms  for  a  moment  ?  " 

There  had  only  been  between  this  young  man  and  him- 
self the  banal  relations  of  two  persons  accustomed  to  fre- 
quent the  same  house,  whom  no  tie  unites,  who  seem  ever 
separated  by  a  certain  antipathy  of  nature,  of  manner  of  life. 
What  explanation  could  there  be  called  for  between  them? 
He  followed  him  with  much  perplexed  curiosity. 

The  aspect  of  the  little  studio,  chilly  under  its  top-light, 
the  empty  fireplace,  the  wind  blowing  as  though  they  were 
out  of  doors  and  making  the  candle  flicker,  the  solitary 
light  on  the  scene  of  the  night's  labour  of  a  poor  and 
lonely  man,  reflected  on  sheets  of  paper  scribbled  over  and 

151 


The  Nabob 

scattered  about,  in  short,  this  atmosphere  of  habitations 
wherein  the  soul  of  the  inhabitants  hves  on  its  own  as- 
pirations, caused  de  Gery  to  understand  the  visionary  air 
of  Andre  Maranne,  his  long  hair  thrown  back  and  stream- 
ing loose,  that  somewhat  eccentric  appearance,  very  excus- 
able when  it  is  paid  for  by  a  life  of  sufferings  and  priva- 
tions, and  his  sympathy  immediately  went  out  to  this 
courageous  fellow  whose  intrepidity  of  spirit  he  guessed  at 
a  glance.  But  the  other  was  too  deeply  moved  by  emotion 
to  notice  the  progress  of  these  reflections.  As  soon  as  the 
door  was  closed  upon  them,  he  said,  with  thQ  accent  of  a 
stage  hero  addressing  the  perfidious  seducer,  "  M.  de  Gery, 
I  am  not  yet  a  Cassandra." 

And  seeing  the  stupefaction  of  de  Gery : 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  went  on,  "  we  understand  each  other. 
I  have  known  perfectly  well  what  it  is  that  draws  you  to 
M.  Joyeuse's  house,  and  the  eager  welcome  with  w^hich 
you  are  received  there  has  not  escaped  my  notice  either. 
You  are  rich,  you  are  of  noble  birth,  there  can  be  no  hesita- 
tion between  you  and  the  poor  poet  who  follows  a  ridicu- 
lous trade  in  order  to  give  himself  full  time  to  reach  a 
success  which  perhaps  will  never  come.  But  I  shall  not 
allow  my  happiness  to  be  stolen  from  me.  We  must  fight, 
monsieur,  we  must  fight,"  he  repeated,  excited  by  the  peace- 
ful calm  of  his  rival.  "  For  long  I  have  loved  Mile.  Joyeuse. 
That  love  is  the  end,  the  joy,  and  the  strength  of  an  existence 
which  is  very  hard,  in  many  respects  painful.  I  have  only 
it  in  the  world,  and  I  would  rather  die  than  give  it  up." 

Strangeness  of  the  human  soul !  Paul  did  not  love  the 
charming  Aline.  His  whole  heart  belonged  to  the  other. 
He  thought  of  her  simply  as  a  friend,  the  most  adorable  of 
friends.  But  the  idea  that  Maranne  was  interested  in  her, 
that  she  no  doubt  returned  this  regard,  gave  him  the  jealous 
shiver  of  an  annoyance,  and  it  was  with  some  considerable 
sharpness  that  he  inquired  whether  Mile.  Joyeuse  was  av/are 
of  this  sentiment  of  Andre's  and  had  in  any  way  authorized 
him  thus  to  proclaim  his  rights. 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  ]\Ille.  Elise  knows  that  I  love  her,  and 

before  your  frequent  visits " 

152 


Bonne  Maman 

"  Elise?    It  is  of  Elise  you  are  speaking?  " 

"And  of  whom,  then,  should  I  be  speaking?  The  two 
others  are  too  young." 

He  fully  entered  into  the  traditions  of  the  family,  this 
Andre.  For  him,  Bonne  Maman's  age  of  twenty  years,  her 
triumphant  grace,  were  obscured  by  a  surname  full  of  re- 
spect and  the  attributes  of  a  Providence  which  seemed  to 
cling  to  her. 

A  very  brief  explanation  having  calmed  Andre  Ma- 
ranne's  mind,  he  offered  his  apologies  to  de  Gery,  begged 
him  to  sit  down  in  the  arm-chair  of  carved  wood  which 
was  used  by  his  sitters,  and  their  conversation  quickly  as- 
sumed an  intimate  and  sympathetic  character,  brought 
about  by  the  so  abrupt  avowal  at  its  opening.  Paul  con- 
fessed that  he,  too,  was  in  love,  and  that  he  came  so  often 
to  M.  Joyeuse's  only  in  order  to  speak  of  her  whom  he 
loved  with  Bonne  Maman,  who  had  known  her  formerly. 

"  That  is  my  case,  too,"  said  Andre.  "  Bonne  Maman 
knows  all  my  secrets ;  but  we  have  not  yet  ventured  to  say 
anything  to  the  father.  My  position  is  too  unsatisfactory. 
Ah,  when  I  shall  have  got  Revolt  produced !  " 

Then  they  talked  of  that  famous  drama.  Revolt,  upon 
which  he  had  been  at  work  for  six  months,  day  and  night, 
which  had  kept  him  warm  all  the  winter,  a  very  severe 
winter,  but  whose  rigours  the  magic  of  composition  had 
tempered  in  the  little  studio,  which  it  transformed.  It  was 
there,  within  that  narrow  space,  that  all  the  heroes  of  his 
piece  had  appeared  to  his  poet's  vision  like  familiar  gnomes 
dropped  from  the  roof  or  riding  moon-beams,  and  with 
them  the  gorgeous  tapestries,  the  glittering  chandeliers,  the 
park  scenes  with  their  gleaming  flights  of  steps,  all  the 
luxurious  circumstance  expected  in  stage  effects,  as  well 
as  the  glorious  tumult  of  his  first  night,  the  applause  of 
which  was  represented  for  him  by  the  rain  beating  on  the 
glass  roof  and  the  boards  rattling  in  the  door,  while  the 
wind,  driving  below  over  the  murky  timber-yard  with  a 
noise  as  of  far-off  voices,  borne  near  and  anew  carried  off 
into  the  distance,  resembled  the  murmurs  from  the  boxes 
opened  on  the  corridor  to  let  the  news  of  his  success  cir- 

153 


The  Nabob 

culate  among  the  gossip  and  wonderment  of  the  crowd.  It 
was  not  only  fame  and  money  that  it  was  destined  to 
procure  him,  this  thrice-blessed  play,  but  something  also 
more  precious  still.  With  what  care  accordingly  did  he 
not  turn  over  the  leaves  of  the  manuscript  in  five  thick 
books,  all  bound  in  blue,  books  like  those  that  the  Levan- 
tine was  accustomed  to  strew  about  on  the  divan  where  she 
took  her  siestas,  and  that  she  marked  with  her  managerial 
pencil. 

Paul,  having  in  his  turn  approached  the  table  in  order 
to  examine  the  masterpiece,  had  his  glance  attracted  by  a 
richly  framed  portrait  of  a  woman,  which,  placed  so  near 
to  the  artist's  work,  seemed  to  be  there  to  preside  over  it. 
Elise,  doubtless?  Oh,  no,  Andre  had  not  yet  the  right 
to  bring  out  from  its  protecting  case  the  portrait  of  his 
little  friend.  This  was  a  woman  of  about  forty,  gentle  of 
aspect,  fair,  and  extremely  elegant.  As  he  perceived  her, 
de  Gery  could  not  suppress  an  exclamation. 

"You  know  her?"  asked  Andre  Maranne. 

"  Why,  yes.  Mme.  Jenkins,  the  wife  of  the  Irish  doc- 
tor.    I  have  had  supper  at  their  house  this  winter." 

"  She  is  my  mother."  And  the  young  man  added  in  a 
lower  tone : 

**  Mme.  Maranne  made  a  second  marriage  with  Dr. 
Jenkins.  You  are  surprised,  are  you  not,  to  see  me  in 
these  poor  surroundings,  while  my  relatives  are  living  in 
the  midst  of  luxury?  But,  you  know,  the  chances  of  fam- 
ily life  sometimes  group  together  natures  that  differ  very 
widely.  My  stepfather  and  I  have  never  been  able  to  under- 
stand each  other.  He  wished  to  make  me  a  doctor,  whereas 
my  only  taste  was  for  writing.  So  at  last,  in  order  to  avoid 
the  continual  discussions  which  were  painful  to  my  mother, 
I  preferred  to  leave  the  house  and  plough  my  furrow  alone, 
without  the  help  of  anybody.  A  rough  business.  Funds 
were  wanting.  The  whole  fortune  has  gone  to  that — to  M, 
Jenkins.  The  question  was  to  earn  a  livelihood,  and  you 
are  aware  what  a  difficult  thing  that  is  for  people  like  our- 
selves, supposed  to  be  well  brought-up.  To  think  that 
among  all  the  accomplishments  gained  from  what  we  are 

154 


Bonne  Maman 

accustomed  to  call  a  complete  education,  this  child's  play 
was  the  only  thing  I  could  find  by  which  I  could  hope  to 
earn  my  bread.  A  few  savings,  my  own  purse,  slender 
like  that  of  most  young  men,  served  to  buy  my  first  outfit 
and  I  installed  myself  here  far  away,  in  the  remotest  region 
of  Paris,  in  order  not  to  embarrass  my  relatives.  Between 
ourselves,  I  don't  expect  to  make  a  fortune  out  of  photog- 
raphy. The  first  days  especially  were  very  difficult.  No- 
body came,  or  if  by  chance  some  unfortunate  wight  did 
mount,  I  made  a  failure  of  him,  got  on  my  plate  only  an 
image  blurred  and  vague  as  a  phantom.  One  day,  at  the 
very  beginning,  a  wedding-party  came  up  to  me,  the  bride  all 
in  white,  the  bridegroom  with  a  waistcoat — like  that !  And 
all  the  guests  in  white  gloves,  which  they  insisted  on  keep- 
ing on  for  the  portrait  on  account  of  the  rarity  of  such  an 
event  with  them.  No,  I  thought  I  should  go  mad.  Those 
black  faces,  the  great  white  patches  made  by  the  dresses, 
the  gloves,  the  orange-blossoms,  the  unlucky  bride,  look- 
ing like  a  queen  of  Niam-niam  under  her  wreath  merg- 
ing indistinguishably  into  her  hair.  And  all  of  them  so 
full  of  good-will,  of  encouragements  to  the  artist.  I  began 
them  over  again  at  least  twenty  times,  and  kept  them  till 
five  o'clock  in  the  evening.  And  then  they  only  left  me 
because  it  was  time  for  dinner.  Can  you  imagine  that 
wedding-day  passed  at  a  photographer's?" 

While  Andre  was  recounting  to  him  with  this  good  hu- 
mour the  troubles  of  his  life,  Paul  recalled  the  tirade  of 
Felicia  that  day  when  Bohemians  had  been  mentioned,  and 
all  that  she  had  said  to  Jenkins  of  their  lofty  courage,  avid 
of  privations  and  trials.  He  thought  also  of  Alinc's  pas- 
sion for  her  beloved  Paris,  of  which  he  himself  was  only 
acquainted,  for  his  part,  with  the  unwholesome  eccentrici- 
ties, while  the  great  city  hid  in  its  recesses  so  many  un- 
known heroisms  and  noble  illusions.  This  last  impression, 
already  experienced  within  the  sheltered  circle  of  the  Joy- 
euse's  great  lamp,  he  received  perhaps  still  more  vividly 
in  this  atmosphere,  less  warm,  less  peaceful,  wherein  art 
also  entered  to  add  its  despairing  or  glorious  uncertainty ; 
and  it  was  with  a  moved  heart  that  he  listened  to  Andre 

155 


The  Nabob 

Maranne  as  he  spoke  to  him  of  Elise,  of  the  examination 
which  it  was  taking  her  so  long  to  pass,  of  the  difficulties 
of  photography,  of  all  that  unforeseen  element  in  his  life 
which  would  end  certainly  "  when  he  should  have  secured 
the  production  of  Revolt,"  a  charming  smile  accompanying 
on  the  poet's  lips  this  so  often  expressed  hope,  which  he 
was  wont  himself  to  hasten  to  make  fun  of,  as  though  to 
deprive  others  of  the  right  to  do  so. 


156 


X 

MEMOIRS   OF   AN    OFFICE   PORTER — SERVANTS 

Truly  Fortune  in  Paris  has  bewildering  turns  of  thp 
wheel ! 

To  have  seen  the  Territorial  Bank  as  I  have  seen  it, 
the  rooms  without  fires,  never  swept,  the  desert  with  its 
dust,  protested  bills  piled  high  as  that  on  the  desks,  every 
week  a  notice  of  sale  posted  at  the  door,  my  stew  spread- 
ing throughout  the  whole  place  the  odour  of  a  poor  man's 
kitchen ;  and  then  to  witness  now  the  reconstitution  of  our 
company  in  its  newly  furnished  halls,  in  which  I  have  orders 
to  light  fires  big  enough  for  a  Government  department,  amid 
a  busy  crowd,  blowings  of  whistles,  electric  bells,  gold  pieces 
piled  up  till  they  fall  over;  it  savours  of  miracle.  I  need 
to  look  at  myself  in  the  glass  before  I  can  believe  it,  to  see 
in  the  mirror  my  iron-gray  coat,  trimmed  with  silver,  my 
white  tie,  my  usher's  chain  like  the  one  I  used  to  wear  at 
the  Faculty  on  the  days  when  there  were  sittings.  And 
to  think  that  to  work  this  transformation,  to  bring  back  to 
our  brows  gaiety,  the  mother  of  concord,  to  restore  to  our 
scrip  its  value  ten  times  over,  to  our  dear  governor  the 
esteem  and  confidence  of  which  he  had  been  so  unjustly 
deprived,  one  man  has  sufficed,  the  being  of  supernatural 
wealth  whom  the  hundred  voices  of  renown  designate  by 
the  name  of  the  Nabob, 

Oh,  the  first  time  that  he  came  to  the  office,  with  his 
fine  presence,  his  face  a  little  worn  perhaps,  but  so  distin- 
guished, his  manners  of  one  accustomed  to  frequent  courts, 
upon  terms  of  the  utmost  familiarity  with  all  the  princes 
of  the  Orient — in  a  word,  that  indescribable  quality  of  as- 
surance and  greatness  which  is  bestowed  by  immense 
wealth — I  felt  my  heart  bursting  beneath  the  double  row 

157. 


The  Nabob 

of  buttons  on  my  waistcoat.  People  may  mouth  in  vain 
their  great  words  of  equality  and  fraternity ;  there  are  men 
who  stand  so  surely  above  the  rest  that  one  would  like  to 
bow  one's  self  down  flat  in  their  presence,  to  find  new 
phrases  of  admiration  in  order  to  compel  them  to  take  a 
practical  interest  in  one.  Let  us  hasten  to  add  that  I  had 
need  of  nothing  of  the  kind  to  attract  the  attention  of  the 
Nabob.  As  I  rose  at  his  passage — moved  to  some  emotion, 
but  with  dignity,  you  may  trust  Passajon  for  that — he 
looked  at  me  with  a  smile  and  said  in  an  undertone  to 
the  young  man  who  accompanied  him :  "  What  a  fine  head, 
like  a — "  Then  there  came  a  word  which  I  did  not 
catch  very  well,  a  word  ending  in  art,  something  like  leopard. 
No,  however,  it  cannot  have  been  that.  I  don't  know  that 
my  head  at  all  resembles  a  leopard's,  Jean-Bart,  perhaps, 
although  even  then  I  hardly  see  the  connection.  However 
that  be,  in  any  case  he  did  say,  "  What  a  fine  head,"  and 
this  condescension  made  me  proud.  Moreover,  all  the  di- 
rectors show  me  a  marked  degree  of  kindness  and  polite- 
ness. It  seems  that  there  was  a  discussion  with  regard 
to  me  at  the  meeting  of  the  board,  to  determine  whether 
I  should  be  kept  or  dismissed  like  our  cashier,  that  ill- 
tempered  fellow  who  was  always  talking  of  getting  every- 
body sent  to  the  galleys,  and  whom  they  have  now  invited 
to  go  elsewhere  to  manufacture  his  cheap  shirt-fronts.  Well 
done !  That  will  teach  him  to  be  rude  to  people.  So  far 
as  I  am  concerned.  Monsieur  the  Governor  kindly  con- 
sented to  overlook  my  somewhat  hasty  words,  in  con- 
sideration of  my  record  of  service  at  the  Territorial  and 
elsewhere ;  and  at  the  conclusion  of  the  board  meeting, 
he  said  to  me  with  his  musical  accent :  "  Passajon,  you 
remain  with  us."  It  may  be  imagined  how  happy  I 
was  and  how  profuse  in  the  expression  of  my  gratitude. 
But  just  think !  I  should  have  left  with  my  few  pence 
without  hope  of  ever  saving  any  more ;  obliged  to  go  and 
cultivate  my  vineyard  in  that  little  country  district  of  Mont- 
bars,  a  very  narrow  field  for  a  man  who  has  lived  in  the 
midst  of  all  the  financial  aristocracy  of  Paris,  and  among 
those  great  banking  operations  by  which  fortunes  are  made 

158 


Servants 

at  a  stroke.  Instead  of  that,  here  I  am  established  afresh 
in  a  magnificent  situation,  my  wardrobe  renewed,  and  my 
savings,  which  I  spent  a  whole  day  in  fingering  over,  in- 
trusted to  the  kind  care  of  the  governor,  who  has  under- 
taken to  invest  them  for  me  advantageously.  I  think  that 
is  a  manoeuvre  which  he  is  the  very  man  to  execute  success- 
fully. And  no  need  for  the  least  anxiety.  Every  fear  van- 
ishes before  the  word  which  is  in  vogue  just  now  at  all  coun- 
cils of  administration,  in  all  shareholders'  meetings,  on  the 
Bourse,  the  boulevards,  and  everywhere :  "  The  Nabob  is 
in  the  affair."  That  is  to  say,  gold  is  being  poured  out 
abundantly,  the  worst  comhinazioni  are  excellent. 

He  is  so  rich,  that  man ! 

Rich  to  a  degree  one  cannot  imagine.  Has  he  not  just 
lent  fifteen  million  francs  as  a  simple  loan  passing  from 
hand  to  hand,  to  the  Bey  of  Tunis?  I  repeat,  fifteen  mil- 
lions. It  w^as  a  trick  he  played  on  the  Hemerlingues,  who 
wished  to  embroil  him  with  that  monarch  and  cut  the  grass 
under  his  feet  in  those  fine  regions  of  the  Orient  where  it 
grows  golden,  high,  and  thick.  It  was  an  old  Turk  whom 
I  know,  Colonel  Brahim,  one  of  our  directors  at  the  Ter- 
ritorial, who  arranged  the  afifair.  Naturally,  the  Bey,  who 
happened  to  be,  it  appears,  short  of  pocket-money,  w^as 
very  much  touched  by  the  alacrity  of  the  Nabob  to  oblige 
him,  and  he  has  just  sent  him  through  Brahim  a  letter  of 
thanks  in  which  he  announces  that  upon  the  occasion  of 
his  next  visit  to  Vichy,  he  will  stay  a  couple  of  days  with 
him  at  that  fine  Chateau  de  Saint-Romans,  which  the  for- 
mer Bey,  the  brother  of  this  one,  honoured  with  a  visit 
once  before.  You  may  fancy,  what  an  honour !  To  re- 
ceive a  reigning  prince  as  a  guest !  The  Hemerlingues 
are  in  a  rage.  They  who  had  manoeuvred  so  carefully — the 
son  at  Tunis,  the  father  in  Paris — to  get  the  Nabob  into 
disfavour.  And  then  it  is  true  that  fifteen  millions  is  a  big 
sum.  And  do  not  say,  "  Passajon  is  telling  us  some  fine 
tales."  The  person  who  acquainted  me  with  the  story  has 
held  in  his  hands  the  paper  sent  by  the  Bey  in  an  envelope 
of  green  silk  stamped  with  the  royal  seal.  If  he  did  not 
read  it,  it  was  because  this  paper  was  written  in  Arabic, 

159 


The  Nabob 

otherwise  he  would  have  made  himself  familiar  with  its 
contents  as  in  the  case  of  all  the  rest  of  the  Nabob's  cor- 
respondence. This  person  is  his  valet  de  chambrc,  M. 
Noel,  to  whom  I  had  the  honour  of  being  introduced  last 
Friday  at  a  small  evening-party  of  persons  in  service  which 
he  gave  to  all  his  friends.  I  record  an  account  of  this  func- 
tion in  my  memoirs  as  one  of  the  most  curious  things 
which  I  have  seen  in  the  course  of  my  four  years  of  so- 
journ in  Paris. 

I  had  thought  at  first  when  M.  Francis,  Monpavon's 
valet  de  chamhre,  spoke  to  me  of  the  thing,  that  it  was  a 
question  of  one  of  those  little  clandestine  junketings  such 
as  are  held  sometimes  in  the  garrets  of  our  boulevards  with 
the  fragments  of  food  brought  up  by  Mile.  Seraphine  and 
the  other  cooks  in  the  building,  at  which  you  drink  stolen 
wine,  and  gorge  yourself,  sitting  on  trunks,  trembling  with 
fear,  by  the  light  of  a  couple  of  candles  which  are  extin- 
guished at  the  least  noise  in  the  corridors.  These  secret 
practices  are  repugnant  to  my  character.  But  when  I  re- 
ceived, as  for  the  regular  servants'  ball,  an  invitation  writ- 
ten in  a  very  beautiful  hand  upon  pink  paper: 

"  M.  Noel  rekwests  M to  be  presant  at  his  evenin- 

party  on  the  25th  instent.     Super  will  be  provided" 

I  saw  clearly,  notwithstanding  the  defective  spelling,  that 
it  was  a  question  of  something  serious  and  authorized.  I 
dressed  myself  therefore  in  my  newest  frock-coat,  my 
finest  linen,  and  arrived  at  the  Place  Vendome  at  the  ad- 
dress indicated  by  the  invitation. 

For  the  giving  of  his  party,  M.  Noel  had  taken  advan- 
tage of  a  first-night  at  the  opera,  to  which  all  fashionable 
society  was  thronging,  thus  giving  the  servants  a  free  rein, 
and  putting  the  entire  place  at  our  disposal  until  midnight. 
Notwithstanding  this,  the  host  had  preferred  to  receive  us 
upstairs  in  his  own  bed-chamber,  and  this  I  approved  high- 
ly, being  in  that  matter  of  the  opinion  of  the  old  fellow 
in  the  rhyme : 

Fie  on  the  pleasure 
That  fear  may  corrupt ! 

160 


Servants 

But  my  word,  the  luxury  on  the  Place  Vendome !  A 
felt  carpet  on  the  floor,  the  bed  hidden  away  in  an  alcove, 
Algerian  curtains  with  red  stripes,  an  ornamental  clock  in 
green  marble  on  the  chimneypiece,  the  whole  lighted  by 
lamps  of  which  the  flames  can  be  regulated  at  will.  Our 
oldest  member,  M.  Chalmette,  is  not  better  lodged  at 
Dijon.  I  arrived  about  nine  o'clock  with  Monpavon's  old 
Francis,  and  I  must  confess  that  my  entry  made  a  sensa- 
tion, preceded  as  I  was  by  my  academical  past,  my  reputa- 
tion for  politeness,  and  great  knowledge  of  the  world.  My 
fine  presence  did  the  rest,  for  it  must  be  said  that  I  know 
how  to  go  into  a  room.  M.  Noel,  in  a  dress-coat,  very 
dark  skinned  and  with  mutton-chop  whiskers,  came  for- 
ward to  meet  us. 

'"  You  are  welcome,  M.  Passajon,"  said  he,  and  taking 
my  cap  with  silver  galloons  which,  according  to  the  fashion, 
I  had  kept  in  my  right  hand  while  making  my  entry,  he 
gave  it  to  a  gigantic  negro  in  red  and  gold  livery, 

"  Here,  Lakdar,  hang  that  up — and  that,"  he  added  by 
way  of  a  joke,  giving  him  a  kick  in  a  certain  region  of 
the  back. 

There  was  much  laughter  at  this  sally,  and  we  began 
to  chat  together  in  very  friendly  fashion.  An  excellent 
fellow,  this  M.  Noel,  with  his  accent  of  the  Midi,  his  pro- 
nounced style  of  dress,  the  smoothness  and  the  simplicity 
of  bis  manners.  He  reminded  me  of  the  Nabob,  without 
his  distinction,  however.  I  noticed,  moreover,  that  even- 
ing, that  these  resemblances  are  frequently  to  be  observed 
in  valets  de  chambre  who,  living  in  the  intimacy  of  their 
masters,  by  whom  they  are  always  a  little  dazzled,  end  by 
acquiring  their  manners  and  habits.  Thus,  M.  Francis  has 
a  certain  way  of  straightening  his  body  when  displaying 
his  linen-front,  a  mania  for  raising  his  arms  in  order  to 
pull  his  cufifs  down — it  is  Monpavon  to  a  T.  Now  one, 
for  instance,  who  bears  no  resemblance  to  his  master  is 
Joey,  the  coachman  of  Dr.  Jenkins.  I  call  him  Joey,  but 
at  the  party  every  one  called  him  Jenkins ;  for,  in  that 
world,  the  stable  folk  among  themselves  give  to  each  other 
the  names  of  their  masters,  call  each  other  Bois  I'Hery, 

i6i 


The  Nabob 

Monpavon,  and  Jenkins,  without  ceremony.  Is  it  in  or- 
der to  degrade  their  superiors,  to  raise  the  status  of  me- 
nials? Every  country  has  its  customs;  it  is  only  a  fool 
who  will  be  surprised  by  them.  To  return  to  Joey  Jenkins, 
how  can  the  doctor,  affable  as  he  is,  so  polished  in  every 
particular,  keep  in  his  service  that  brute,  bloated  with  por- 
ter and  ^w,*  who  will  remain  silent  for  hours  at  a  time, 
then,  at  the  first  mounting  of  liquor  to  his  head,  begins  to 
howl  and  to  wish  to  fight  everybody,  as  witness  the  scandal- 
ous scene  which  had  just  occurred  when  we  entered? 

The  marquis's  little  groom,  Tom  Bois  I'Hery,  as  they 
call  him  here,  had  desired  to  have  a  jest  with  this  uncouth 
creature  of  an  Irishman,  who  had  replied  to  a  bit  of  Paris- 
ian urchin's  banter  with  a  terrible  Belfast  blow  of  his  fist 
right  in  the  lad's  face. 

"  A  sausage  with  paws,  I !  A  sausage  with  paws,  I !  " 
repeated  the  coachman,  choking  with  rage,  while  his  inno- 
cent victim  was  being  carried  into  the  adjoining  room, 
where  the  ladies  and  girls  found  occupation  in  bathing  his 
nose.  The  disturbance  was  quickly  appeased,  thanks  to 
our  arrival,  thanks  also  to  the  wise  words  of  M.  Barreau, 
a  middle-aged  man,  sedate  and  majestic,  with  a  manner 
resembling  my  own.  He  is  the  Nabob's  cook,  a  former 
chef  of  the  Cafe  Anglais,  whom  Cardailhac,  the  manager  of 
the  Nouveautes,  has  procured  for  his  friend.  To  see  him 
in  a  dress-coat,  with  white  tie,  his  handsome  face  full  and 
clean-shaven,  you  w-ould  have  taken  him  for  one  of  the 
great  functionaries  of  the  Empire.  It  is  true  that  a  cook 
in  an  establishment  where  the  table  is  set  every  morning 
for  thirty  persons,  in  addition  to  madame's  special  meal, 
and  all  eating  only  the  very  finest  and  most  delicate  of  food, 
is  not  the  same  as  the  ordinary  preparer  of  a  ragout.  He 
is  paid  the  salary  of  a  colonel,  lodged,  boarded,  and  then 
the  perquisites !  One  has  hardly  a  notion  of  the  extent 
of  the  perquisites  in  a  berth  like  this.  Every  one  conse- 
quently addressed  him  respectfully,  with  the  deference  due 
to  a  man  of  his  importance.     "  M.  Barreau  "  here,  "  My 

*  In  English  in  the  original. 
162 


Servants 

dear  M.  Barreau "  there.  For  it  is  a  great  mistake  to 
imagine  that  servants  among  themselves  are  all  cronies 
and  comrades.  Nowhere  do  you  find  a  hierarchy  more 
prevalent  than  among  them.  Thus  at  M.  Noel's  party  I 
distinctly  noticed  that  the  coachmen  did  not  fraternize  with 
their  grooms,  nor  the  valets  with  the  footmen  and  the 
lackeys,  any  more  than  the  steward  or  the  butler  would 
mix  with  the  lower  servants ;  and  when  M.  Barreau  emitted 
any  little  pleasjmtry  it  was  amusing  to  see  how  exceedingly 
those  under  his  orders  seemed  to  enjoy  it.  I  am  not  op- 
posed to  this  kind  of  thing.  Quite  on  the  contrary.  As 
our  oldest  member  used  to  say,  ''  A  society  without  a 
hierarchy  is  like  a  house  without  a  staircase."  The  ob- 
servation, however,  seems  to  me  one  worth  setting  down 
in  these  memoirs. 

The  party,  I  need  scarcely  say,  did  not  shine  with  its 
full  splendour  until  after  the  return  of  its  most  beauteous 
ornaments,  the  ladies  and  girls  who  had  gone  to  nurse  the 
little  Tom,  ladies'-maids  with  shining  and  pomaded  hair, 
chiefs  of  domestic  departments  in  bonnets  adorned  with 
ribbons,  negresses,  housekeepers,  a  brilliant  assembly  in 
which  I  was  immediately  given  great  prestige,  thanks  to 
my  dignified  bearing  and  to  the  surname  of  "  Uncle  "  which 
the  younger  among  these  delightful  persons  saw  fit  to  be- 
stow upon  me. 

I  fancy  there  was  in  the  room  a  good  deal  of  second- 
hand frippery  in  the  way  of  silk  and  lace,  rather  faded 
velvet,  even,  eight-button  gloves  that  had  been  cleaned  sev- 
eral times,  and  perfumes  abstracted  from  madame's  dress- 
ing-table, but  the  faces  were  happy,  thoughts  given  wholly 
to  gaiety,  and  I  was  able  to  make  a  little  corner  for  myself, 
which  was  very  lively,  always  within  the  bounds  of  pro- 
priety— that  goes  without  saying — and  of  a  character  suit- 
able for  an  individual  in  my  position.  This  was,  moreover, 
the  general  tone  of  the  party.  Until  towards  the  end  of 
the  entertainment  I  heard  none  of  those  unseemly  jests, 
none  of  those  scandalous  stories  which  give  so  much 
amusement  to  the  gentlemen  of  our  Board ;  and  I  lake 
pleasure  in   remarking  that   Bois   I'Hery  the  coachman — ■ 

163 


The  Nabob 

to  cite  only  that  one  example — is  much  more  observant 
of  the  proprieties  than  Bois  I'Hery  the  master. 

M.  Noel  alone  was  conspicuous  by  his  familiar  tone 
and  by  the  liveliness  of  his  repartees.  In  him  you  have  a 
man  who  does  not  hesitate  to  call  things  by  their  names. 
Thus  he  remarked  aloud  to  M.  Francis,  from  one  end  of 
the  room  to  the  other :  "  I  say,  Francis,  that  old  swindler 
of  yours  has  made  a  nice  thing  out  of  us  again  this  week." 
And  as  the  other  drew  himself  up  with  a  dignified  air,  M. 
Noel  began  to  laugh. 

"  No  ofTence,  old  chap.  The  coffer  is  solid.  You  will 
never  get  to  the  bottom  of  it." 

And  it  was  on  this  that  he  told  us  of  the  loan  of  fifteen 
millions,  to  which  I  alluded  above. 

I  was  surprised,  however,  to  see  no  sign  of  preparation 
for  the  supper  which  was  mentioned  on  the  cards  of  in- 
vitation, and  I  expressed  my  anxiety  on  the  point  to  one 
of  my  charming  nieces,  who  replied : 

"  They  are  waiting  for  M.  Louis." 

"M.  Louis?" 

"  What !  you  do  not  know  M.  Louis,  the  valet  de  chani- 
bre  of  the  Due  de  Mora  ? " 

I  then  learned  who  this  influential  personage  was,  whose 
protection  is  sought  by  prefects,  senators,  even  ministers, 
and  who  must  make  them  pay  stif^y  for  it,  since  with  his 
salary  of  twelve  hundred  francs  from  the  duke  he  has  saved 
enough  to  produce  him  an  income  of  twenty-five  thousand, 
sends  his  daughters  to  the  convent  school  of  the  Sacre 
Coeur,  his  son  to  the  College  Bourdaloue,  and  owns  a 
chalet  in  Switzerland  where  all  his  family  goes  to  stay 
during  the  holidays. 

At  this  juncture  the  personage  in  question  arrived ;  but 
nothing  in  his  appearance  would  have  suggested  the  unique 
position  in  Paris  which  is  his.  Nothing  of  majesty  in  his 
deportment,  a  waistcoat  buttoned  up  to  the  collar,  a  mean- 
looking  and  insolent  manner,  and  a  way  of  speaking  with- 
out moving  the  lips  which  is  very  impolite  to  those  who 
are  listening  to  you. 

He  greeted  the  assembly  with  a  slight  nod  of  the  head, 

164 


Servants 

extended  a  finger  to  M.  Noel,  and  we  were  sitting  there 
looking  at  each  other,  frozen  by  his  grand  manners,  when 
a  door  opened  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room  and  we  be- 
held the  supper  laid  out  with  all  kinds  of  cold  meats,  pyra- 
mids of  fruit,  and  bottles  of  all  shapes  beneath  the  light 
falling  from  two  candelabra. 

"  Come,  gentlemen,  give  the  ladies  your  hands."  In  a 
minute  we  were  at  table,  the  ladies  seated  next  the  eldest 
or  the  most  important  among  us  all,  the  rest  on  their  feet, 
serving,  chattering,  drinking  from  everybody's  glass,  pick- 
ing a  morsel  from  any  plate.  I  had  M.  Francis  for  my 
neighbour  and  I  had  to  listen  to  his  grudges  against  M. 
Louis,  of  whose  place  he  was  envious,  so  brilliant  was  it 
in  comparison  with  that  which  he  occupied  under  the  noble 
but  worn-out  old  gambler  who  was  his  master. 

"  He  is  a  parvenu,"  he  muttered  to  me  in  a  low  voice. 
"  He  owes  his  fortune  to  his  wife,  to  Mme.  Paul." 

It  appears  that  this  Mme.  Paul  is  a  housekeeper,  who 
has  been  in  the  duke's  establishment  for  twenty  years,  and 
who  excels  beyond  all  others  in  the  preparation  for  him 
of  a  certain  ointment  for  an  affection  to  which  he  is  sub- 
ject. She  is  indispensable  to  Mora.  Recognising  this,  M. 
Louis  made  love  to  the  old  lady,  married  her  though  much 
younger  than  she,  and  in  order  not  to  lose  his  sick-nurse 
and  her  ointments,  his  excellency  engaged  the  husband  as 
valet  de  chambre.  At  bottom,  in  spite  of  what  I  said  to 
M.  Francis,  for  my  own  part  I  thought  the  proceeding 
quite  praiseworthy  and  conformable  to  the  loftiest  morality, 
since  the  mayor  and  the  priest  had  a  finger  in  it.  More- 
over, that  excellent  meal,  composed  of  delicate  and  very 
expensive  foods  with  which  I  was  unacquainted  even  by 
name,  had  strongly  disposed  my  mind  to  indulgence  and 
good-humour.  But  every  one  was  not  similarly  inclined, 
for  from  the  other  side  of  the  table  I  could  hear  the  bass 
voice  of  M.  Barreau,  complaining : 

"  Why  can  he  not  mind  his  own  business  ?  Do  I  go 
pushing  my  nose  into  his  department?  To  begin  with, 
the  thing  concerns  Bompain,  not  him.  And  then,  after  all, 
what  is  it  that  I  am  charged  with?    The  butcher  sends  me 

165 


The  Nabob 

five  baskets  of  meat  every  morning.  I  use  only  two  of 
them  and  sell  the  three  others  back  to  him.  Where  is  the 
chef  who  does  not  do  the  same?  As  if,  instead  of  coming 
to  play  the  spy  in  my  basement,  he  would  not  do  better  to 
look  after  the  great  leakage  up  there.  When  I  think  that 
in  three  months  that  gang  on  the  first  floor  has  smoked 
twenty-eight  thousand  francs'  worth  of  cigars.  Twenty- 
eight  thousand  francs !  Ask  Noel  if  I  am  not  speaking  the 
truth.  And  on  the  second  floor,  in  the  apartments  of  ma- 
dame,  that  is  where  you  should  look  to  see  a  fine  confusion 
of  linen,  of  dresses  thrown  aside  after  being  worn  once, 
jewels  by  the  handful,  pearls  that  you  crush  on  the  floor 
as  you  walk.  Oh,  but  wait  a  little.  I  shall  get  my  own 
back  from  that  same  little  gentleman." 

I  understood  that  the  allusion  was  to  M.  de  Gery,  that 
young  secretary  of  the  Nabob  who  often  comes  to  the 
Territorial,  where  he  is  always  occupied  rummaging  into 
the  books.  Very  polite,  certainly,  but  a  very  haughty 
young  man,  who  does  not  know  how  to  push  himself  for- 
ward. From  all  round  the  table  there  came  nothing  but  a 
concert  of  maledictions  on  him.  M.  Louis  himself  ad- 
dressed some  remarks  to  the  company  upon  the  subject  with 
his  grand  air : 

"  In  our  establishment,  my  dear  M.  Barreau,  the  cook 
quite  recently  had  an  affair,  similar  to  yours,  with  the  chief 
of  his  excellency's  Cabinet,  who  had  permitted  himself  to 
make  some  comments  upon  the  expenditure.  The  cook 
went  up  to  the  duke's  apartments  upon  the  instant  in  his 
professional  costume,  and  with  his  hand  on  the  strings  of 
his  apron,  said,  *  Let  your  excellency  choose  between  mon- 
sieur and  myself.'  The  duke  did  not  hesitate.  One  can 
find  as  many  Cabinet  leaders  as  one  desires,  while  the  good 
cooks,  you  can  count  them.  There  are  in  Paris  four  alto- 
gether. I  include  you,  my  dear  Barreau.  We  dismissed 
the  chief  of  our  Cabinet,  giving  him  a  prefecture  of  the  first 
class  by  way  of  consolation;  but  we  kept  the  chef  of  our 
kitchen." 

"  Ah,  you  see,"  said  M.  Barreau,  who  rejoiced  to  hear 
this  story,  "  you  see  what  it  is  to  serve  in  the  house  of  a 

i66 


Servants 

grand  seigneur.  But  parvenus  are  parvenus — what  will 
you  have  ? " 

"  And  that  is  all  Jansoulet  is,"  added  M.  Francis,  tug- 
ging at  his  cuffs.  "  A  man  who  used  to  be  a  street  porter 
at  Marseilles." 

M.  Noel  took  offence  at  this. 

"  Hey,  down  there,  old  Francis,  you  are  very  glad  all 
the  same  to  have  him  to  pay  your  card-debts,  the  street 
forter  of  La  Cannebriere.  You  may  well  be  embarrassed 
by  parvenus  like  us  who  lend  millions  to  kings,  and  whom 
grands  seigneurs  like  Mora  do  not  blush  to  admit  to  their 
tables." 

"  Oh,  in  the  country,"  chuckled  M.  Francis,  with  a 
sneer  that  showed  his  old  tooth. 

The  other  rose,  quite  red  in  the  face.  He  was  about 
to  give  way  to  his  anger  when  M.  Louis  made  a  gesture 
with  his  hand  to  signify  that  he  had  something  to  say,  and 
M.  Noel  sat  down  immediately,  putting  his  hand  to  his  ear 
like  all  the  rest  of  us  in  order  to  lose  nothing  that  fell  from 
those  august  lips. 

"  It  is  true,"  remarked  the  personage,  speaking  with 
the  slightest  possible  movement  of  his  mouth  and  con- 
tinuing to  take  his  wine  in  little  sips,  "  it  is  true  that  we 
received  the  Nabob  at  Grandbois  the  other  week.  There 
even  happened  something  very  funny  on  the  occasion.  We 
have  a  quantity  of  mushrooms  in  the  second  park,  and  his 
excellency  amuses  himself  sometimes  by  gathering  them. 
Now  at  dinner  was  served  a  large  dish  of  fungi.  There 
were  present,  what's  his  name — I  forget,  what  is  it? — Ma- 
rigny,  the  Minister  of  the  Interior,  Monpavon,  and  your 
master,  my  dear  Noel.  The  mushrooms  went  the  round  of 
the  table,  they  looked  nice,  the  gentlemen  helped  them- 
selves freely,  except  M.  le  Due,  who  cannot  digest  them 
and  out  of  politeness  feels  it  his  duty  to  remark  to  his 
guests :  '  Oh,  you  know,  it  is  not  that  I  am  suspicious  of 
them.  They  are  perfectly  safe.  It  was  I  myself  who  gath- 
ered them.' 

"  '  Sapristi! '  said  Monpavon,  laughing,  '  then,  my  dear 
Auguste,  allow  me  to  be  excused  from  tasting  th'em.'     Ma- 

167 


The  Nabob 

rigny,  less  familiar,  glanced  at  his  plate  out  of  the  corner 
of  his  eye. 

"  '  But,  yes,  Monpavon,  I  assure  you.  They  look  ex- 
tremely good,  these  mushrooms.  I  am  truly  sorry  that  I 
have  no  appetite  left.' 

"  The  duke  remained  very  serious. 

"  *  Come,  M.  Jansoulet,  I  sincerely  hope  that  you  are 
not  going  to  offer  me  this  affront,  you  also.  Mushrooms 
selected  by  myself.' 

"  *  Oh,  Excellency,  the  very  idea  of  such  a  thing !  Why, 
I  would  eat  them  with  my  eyes  closed.' 

"  So  you  see  what  sort  of  luck  he  had,  the  poor  Nabob, 
the  first  time  that  he  dined  with  us.  Duperron,  who  was 
serving  opposite  him,  told  us  all  about  it  in  the  pantry. 
It  seems  there  could  have  been  nothing  more  comic  than 
to  see  the  Jansoulet  stuffing  himself  with  mushrooms,  and 
rolling  terrified  eyes,  while  the  others  sat  watching  him  curi- 
ously without  touching  their  plates.  He  sweated  under  the 
effort,  poor  wretch.  And  the  best  of  it  was  that  he  took  a 
second  portion,  he  actually  found  the  courage  to  take  a 
second  portion.  He  kept  drinking  off  glasses  of  wine, 
however,  like  a  mason,  between  each  mouthful.  Ah,  well, 
do  you  wish  to  hear  my  opinion?  What  he  did  there  was 
very  clever,  and  I  am  no  longer  surprised  that  this  fat 
cow-herd  should  have  become  the  favourite  of  sovereigns. 
He  knows  where  to  flatter  them  in  those  little  pretensions 
which  no  man  avows.  In  brief,  the  duke  has  been  crazy 
over  him  since  that  day." 

This  little  story  caused  much  laughter  and  scattered  the 
clouds  which  had  been  raised  by  a  few  imprudent  words. 
So  then,  since  the  wine  had  untied  people's  tongues,  and 
they  knew  each  other  better,  elbows  were  leaned  on  the 
table  and  the  conversation  fell  on  masters,  on  the  places 
in  which  each  had  served,  on  the  amusing  things  he  had 
seen  in  them.  Ah !  of  how  many  such  adventures  did  I 
not  hear,  how  much  of  the  interior  life  of  those  establish- 
ments did  I  not  see  pass  before  me.  Naturally  I  also  made 
my  own  little  effect  with  the  story  of  my  larder  at  the 
Territorial,  the  times  when  I  used  to  keep  my  stew  in  the 

i68 


Servants 

empty  safe,  which  circumstance,  however,  did  not  prevent 
our  old  cashier,  a  great  stickler  for  forms,  from  changing 
the  key-word  of  the  lock  every  two  days,  as  though  all  the 
treasures  of  the  Bank  of  France  had  been  inside.  M.  Louis 
appeared  to  find  my  anecdote  entertaining.  But  the  most 
astonishing  was  what  the  little  Bois  I'Hery,  with  his  Paris- 
ian street-boy's  accent,  related  to  us  concerning  the  house- 
hold of  his  employers. 

Marquis  and  Marquise  de  Bois  I'Hery,  second  floor, 
Boulevard  Haussmann.  Furniture  rich  as  at  the  Tuileries, 
blue  satin  on  all  the  walls,  Chinese  ornaments,  pictures, 
curiosities,  a  veritable  museum,  indeed,  overflowing  even 
on  to  the  stairway.  The  service  very  smart :  six  men-serv- 
ants, chestnut  livery  in  winter,  nankeen  livery  in  summer. 
These  people  are  seen  everywhere  at  the  small  Mondays, 
at  the  races,  at  first-nights,  at  embassy  balls,  and  their 
name  always  in  the  newspapers  with  a  remark  upon  the 
handsome  toilettes  of  Madame,  and  Monsieur's  remarkable 
chic.  Well !  all  that  is  nothing  at  all  but  pretence,  plated 
goods,  show,  and  when  the  marquis  wants  five  francs  no- 
body would  lend  them  to  him  upon  his  possessions.  The 
furniture  is  hired  by  the  fortnight  from  Fitily,  the  uphol- 
sterer of  the  demi-monde.  The  curiosities,  the  pictures, 
belong  to  old  Schwalbach,  who  sends  his  clients  round 
there  and  makes  them  pay  doubly  dear,  since  people  don't 
bargain  when  they  think  they  are  dealing  with  a  marquis, 
an  amateur.  As  for  the  toilettes  of  the  marquise,  the  milli- 
ner and  the  dressmaker  provide  her  with  them  each  season 
gratis,  get  her  to  wear  the  new  fashions,  a  little  ridiculous 
sometimes  but  which  society  subsequently  adopts  because 
Madame  is  still  a  very  handsome  woman  and  reputed  for 
her  elegance ;  she  is  what  is  called  a  launcher.  Finally,  the 
servants !  Makeshifts  like  the  rest,  changed  each  week  at 
the  pleasure  of  the  registry  office  which  sends  them  there 
to  do  a  period  of  probation  by  way  of  preliminary  to  a 
serious  engagement.  If  you  have  neither  sureties  nor  cer- 
tificates, if  you  have  just  come  out  of  prison  or  anything 
of  that  kind,  Glanand,  the  famous  agent  of  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix,  sends  you  off  to  the  Boulevard  Haussmann.    You  re- 

169 


The  Nabob 

main  in  service  there  for  a  week  or  two,  just  the  time 
necessary  to  buy  a  good  reference  from  the  marquis,  who, 
of  course,  it  is  understood,  pays  you  nothing  and  barely 
boards  you ;  for  in  that  house  the  kitchen-ranges  are  cold 
most  of  the  time,  Monsieur  and  Madame  dining  out  nearly 
every  evening  or  going  to  balls,  where  a  supper  is  in- 
cluded in  the  entertainment.  It  is  positive  fact  that  there 
are  people  in  Paris  who  take  the  sideboard  seriously  and 
make  the  first  meal  of  their  day  after  midnight.  The  Bois 
THerys,  in  consequence,  are  well-informed  with  repard  to 
the  houses  that  provide  refreshments.  They  will  tell  you 
that  you  get  a  very  good  supper  at  the  Austrian  Embassy, 
that  the  Spanish  Embassy  rather  neglects  the  wines,  and 
that  it  is  at  the  Foreign  Office  again  that  you  find  the  best 
chaud-froid  de  volailles.  And  that  is  the  life  of  this  curious 
household.  Nothing  that  they  possess  is  really  theirs; 
everything  is  tacked  on,  loosely  fastened  with  pins.  A 
gust  of  wind  and  the  whole  thing  blows  away.  But  at  least 
they  are  certain  of  losing  nothing.  It  is  this  assurance 
which  gives  to  the  marquis  that  air  of  raillery  worthy  of 
a  Father  Tranquille  which  he  has  when  he  looks  at  you 
with  both  hands  in  his  pockets,  as  much  as  to  say :  "  Ah, 
well,  and  what  then  ?     What  can  they  do  to  me  ?  " 

And  the  little  groom,  in  the  attitude  which  I  have  just 
mentioned,  with  his  head  like  that  of  a  prematurely  old  and 
vicious  child,  imitated  his  master  so  well  that  I  could  fancy 
I  saw  himself  as  he  looks  at  our  board  meetings,  standing 
in  front  of  the  governor  and  overwhelming  him  with  his 
cynical  pleasantries.  All  the  same,  one  '^ust  admit  that 
Paris  is  a  tremendously  great  city,  for  a  lan  to  be  able 
to  live  thus,  through  fifteen,  twenty  years  of  tricks,  arti- 
fice, dust  thrown  in  people's  eyes,  without  everybody  find- 
ing him  out,  and  for  him  still  to  be  able  to  make  a  tri- 
umphal entry  into  a  drawing-room  in  the  rear  of  his  name 
announced  loudly  and  repeatedly,  "  Monsieur  le  Marquis 
de  Bois  I'Hery." 

No,  look  you,  the  things  that  are  to  be  learned  at  a 
servants'  party,  what  a  curious  spectacle  is  presented  by 
the  fashionable  world  of  Paris,  seen  thus  from  below,  from 

170 


Servants 

the  basements,  you  need  to  go  to  one  before  you  can  real- 
ize. Here,  for  instance,  is  a  little  fragment  of  conversation 
which,  happening  to  find  myself  between  M.  Francis  and 
M.  Louis,  I  overheard  about  the  worthy  sire  de  Monpavon. 

"  You  are  making  a  mistake,  Francis.  You  are  in  funds 
just  now.  You  ought  to  take  advantage  of  the  occasion 
to  restore  that  money  to  the  Treasury." 

"  What  will  you  have  ?  "  replied  M.  Francis  with  a  de- 
spondent air.     "  Play  is  devouring  us." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  well.  But  take  care.  We  shall  not 
always  be  there.  We  may  die,  fall  from  power.  Then  you 
will  be  asked  for  accounts  by  the  people  down  yonder. 
And  it  will  be  a  terrible  business." 

I  had  often  heard  whispered  the  story  of  a  forced  loan 
of  two  hundred  thousand  francs  which  the  marquis  was 
reputed  to  have  secured  from  the  State  at  the  time  when 
he  was  Receiver-General ;  but  the  testimony  of  his  valet 
de  chambre  was  worse  than  all.  Ah !  if  masters  had  any 
suspicion  of  how  much  servants  know,  of  all  the  stories  that 
are  told  in  the  servants'  hall,  if  they  could  see  their  names 
dragged  among  the  sweepings  of  the  house  and  the  refuse 
of  the  kitchen,  they  would  never  again  dare  to  say  even 
"  shut  the  door  "  or  "  harness  the  horses."  Why,  for  in- 
stance, take  Dr.  Jenkins,  with  the  most  valuable  practice  in 
Paris,  ten  years  of  life  in  common  with  a  magnificent  wom- 
an, who  is  sought  after  everywhere ;  it  is  in  vain  that  he 
has  done  everything  to  dissimulate  his  position,  announced 
his  marriage  in  the  newspapers  after  the  English  fashion, 
admitted  to  his  house  only  foreign  servants  knowing  hardly 
three  words  of  French.  In  those  three  words,  seasoned 
with  vulgar  oaths  and  blows  of  his  fist  on  the  table,  his 
coachman  Joey,  who  hates  him,  told  us  his  whole  history 
during  supper. 

"  She  is  going  to  kick  the  bucket,  his  Irish  wife,  the 
real  one.  Remains  to  be  seen  now  whether  he  will  marry 
the  other.  Forty-five,  she  is,  Mrs.  Maranne,  and  not  a 
shilling.  You  should  see  how  afraid  she  is  of  being  left 
in  the  lurch.  Whether  he  marries  her  or  whether  he  does 
not  marry  her — kss,  kss — we  shall  have  a  good  laugh." 

171  Vol.  18— I 


The  Nabob 

And  the  more  drink  he  was  given,  the  more  he  told 
us  about  her,  speaking  of  his  unfortunate  mistress  as 
though  she  were  the  lowest  of  the  low.  For  my  own  part, 
I  confess  that  she  interested  me,  this  false  Mme.  Jenkins, 
who  goes  about  weeping  in  every  corner,  implores  her 
lover  as  though  he  were  the  executioner,  and  runs  the 
chance  of  being  thrown  overboard  altogether,  when  all 
society  believes  her  to  be  married,  respectable,  and  estab- 
lished in  life.  The  others  only  laughed  over  the  story,  the 
women  especially.  Dame !  it  is  amusing  when  one  is  in 
service  to  see  that  the  ladies  of  the  upper  ten  have  their 
troubles  also  and  torments  that  keep  them  awake  at  night. 

Our  festal  board  at  this  stage  presented  the  most  lively 
aspect,  a  circle  of  gay  faces  stretched  towards  this  Irish- 
man whose  story  was  adjudged  to  have  won  the  prize. 
The  fact  excited  envy ;  the  rest  sought  and  hunted  through 
their  memories  for  whatever  they  might  hold  in  the  way  of 
old  scandals,  adventures  of  deceived  husbands,  of  those  in- 
timate privacies  which  are  emptied  on  the  kitchen-table 
along  with  the  scraps  from  the  plates  and  the  dregs  from 
the  bottles.  The  champagne  was  beginning  to  claim  its 
own  among  the  guests.  Joey  wanted  to  dance  a  jig  on  the 
table-cloth.  The  ladies,  at  the  least  word  that  was  a  little 
gay,  threw  themselves  back  with  the  piercing  laughter  of 
people  who  are  being  tickled,  allowing  their  embroidered 
skirts  to  trail  beneath  the  table,  loaded  with  the  remains 
of  the  food  and  covered  with  spilt  grease.  M.  Louis  had 
discreetly  retired.  Glasses  were  filled  up  before  they  had 
been  emptied ;  one  of  the  housekeepers  dipped  a  handker- 
chief in  hers,  filled  with  water,  and  bathed  her  forehead  with 
it,  because  her  head  was  swimming,  she  said.  It  was  time 
that  the  festivity  should  end;  and,  in  fact,  an  electric  bell 
ringing  in  the  corridor  warned  us  that  the  footman,  on 
duty  at  the  theatre,  had  come  to  summon  the  coachmen. 
Thereupon  Monpavon  proposed  the  health  of  the  master 
of  the  house,  thanking  him  for  his  little  party.  M.  Noel 
announced  that  he  proposed  to  give  another  at  Saint-Ro- 
mans, in  honour  of  the  visit  of  the  Bey,  to  which  most  of 
those  present  would  probably  be  invited.    And  I  was  about 

172 


Servants 

to  rise  in  my  turn,  being  sufficiently  accustomed  to  social 
banquets  to  know  that  on  such  an  occasion  the  oldest  man 
present  is  expected  to  propose  the  health  of  the  ladies, 
when  the  door  opened  abruptly,  and  a  tall  footman,  be- 
spattered with  mud,  a  dripping  umbrella  in  his  hand,  per- 
spiring, out  of  breath,  cried  to  us,  without  respect  for  the 
company : 

"  But  come  on  then,  you  set  of  idiots !    What  are  you 
sticking  here  for?     Don't  you  know  it  is  over?" 


173 


XI 

THE   FESTIVITIES   IN   HONOUR   OF   THE   BEY 

In  the  regions  of  the  Midi,  of  bygone  civiHzation,  his- 
torical castles  still  standing  are  rare.  Only  at  long  intervals 
on  the  hillsides  some  old  abbey  lifts  its  tottering  and  dis- 
membered front,  perforated  by  holes  that  once  were  win- 
dows, whose  empty  spaces  look  now  only  to  the  sky.  A 
monument  of  dust,  burnt  up  by  the  sun,  dating  from  the 
time  of  the  Crusades  or  of  the  Courts  of  Love,  without 
a  trace  of  man  among  its  stones,  where  even  the  ivy  no 
longer  clings  nor  the  acanthus,  but  which  the  dried  laven- 
ders and  the  ferns  embalm.  In  the  midst  of  all  those  ruins 
the  castle  of  Saint-Romans  is  an  illustrious  exception.  If 
you  have  travelled  in  the  Midi  you  have  seen  it,  and  you  are 
to  see  it  again  now.  It  is  between  Valence  and  Monteli- 
mart,  on  a  site  just  where  the  railway  runs  alongside  the 
Rhone,  at  the  foot  of  the  rich  slopes  of  Baume,  Raucoule, 
and  Mercurol,  where  the  far-famed  vineyards  of  TErmitage, 
spreading  out  for  five  miles  in  close-planted  rows  of  vines, 
which  seem  to  grow  as  one  looks,  roll  down  almost  into 
the  river,  which  is  there  as  green  and  full  of  islands  as  the 
Rhine  at  Basle,  but  under  a  sun  the  Rhine  has  never  known. 
Saint-Romans  is  opposite  on  the  other  side  of  the  river ; 
and,  in  spite  of  the  brevity  of  the  vision,  the  headlong  rush 
of  the  train,  which  seems  trying  to  throw  itself  madly  into 
the  Rhone  at  each  turning,  the  castle  is  so  large,  so  well 
situated  on  the  neighbouring  hill,  that  it  seems  to  follow  the 
crazy  race  of  the  train,  and  stamps  on  your  mind  forever  the 
memory  of  its  terraces,  its  balustrades,  its  Italian  architec- 
ture ;  two  low  stories  surmounted  by  a  colonnaded  gallery 
and  flanked  by  two  slate-roofed  pavilions  dominating  the 
great  slopes  where  the  water  of  the  cascades  rebounds,  the 

174 


The   Festivities   in   Honour  of  the  Bey 

network  of  gravel  walks,  the  perspective  of  long  hedges, 
terminated  by  some  white  statue  which  stands  out  against 
the  blue  sky  as  on  the  luminous  ground  of  a  stained-glass 
window.  Quite  at  the  top,  in  the  middle  of  the  vast  lawns 
Avhose  green  turf  shines  ironically  under  the  scorching  sun, 
a  gigantic  cedar  uplifts  its  crested  foliage,  enveloped  in 
black  and  floating  shadows — an  exotic  silhouette,  upright 
before  this  former  dwelling  of  some  Louis  XIV  farmer  of 
revenue,  which  makes  one  think  of  a  great  negro  carry- 
ing the  sunshade  of  a  gentleman  of  the  court. 

From  Valence  to  IMarseilles,  throughout  all  the  Valley 
of  the  Rhone,  Saint-Romans  of  Bellaignes  is  famous  as 
an  enchanted  palace ;  and,  indeed,  in  that  country  burnt  up 
by  the  fiery  wind,  this  oasis  of  greenness  and  beautiful  rush- 
ing water  is  a  true  fairy-land. 

"  When  I  am  rich,  mamma,"  Jansoulet  used  to  say,  as 
quite  a  small  boy,  to  his  mother  whom  he  adored,  "  I  shall 
give  you  Saint-Romans  of  Bellaignes,"  And  as  the  life  of 
the  man  seemed  the  fulfilment  of  a  story  from  the  Arabian 
Nights,  as  all  his  wishes  came  true,  even  the  most  dispro- 
portionate, as  his  maddest  chimeras  came  to  lie  down  be- 
fore him,  to  Tick  his  hands  like  familiar  and  obedient  span- 
iels, he  had  bought  Saint-Romans  to  offer  it,  newly  fur- 
nished and  grandiosely  restored,  to  his  mother.  Although 
it  was  ten  years  since  then,  the  dear  old  woman  was  not 
yet  used  to  her  splendid  establishment,  "  It  is  the  palace 
of  Queen  Jeanne  that  you  have  given  me,  my  dear  Ber- 
nard," she  wrote  to  her  son,  "  I  shall  never  live  there." 
She  never  did  live  there,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  having  stayed 
at  the  steward's  house,  an  isolated  building  of  modern  con- 
struction, situated  quite  at  the  other  end  of  the  grounds,  so 
as  to  overlook  the  outbuildings  and  the  farm,  the  sheep- 
folds  and  the  oil-mills,  with  their  rural  horizon  of  stacks, 
olive-trees  and  vines,  extending  over  the  plain  as  far  as  one 
could  see.  In  the  great  castle  she  would  have  imagined 
herself  a  prisoner  in  one  of  those  enchanted  dwellings 
where  sleep  seizes  you  in  the  midst  of  your  happiness  and 
does  not  let  you  go  for  a  hundred  years.  Here,  at  least, 
the  peasant-woman — who  had  never  been  able  to  accustom 

175 


The  Nabob 

herself  to  this  colossal  fortune,  come  too  late,  from  too  far, 
and  like  a  thunder-clap — felt  herself  linked  to  reality  by 
the  coming  and  going  of  the  work-people,  the  letting-out 
and  taking-in  of  the  cattle,  their  slow  movement  to  the 
drinking  pond,  all  that  pastoral  life  which  woke  her  by  the 
familiar  call  of  the  cocks  and  the  sharp  cries  of  the  pea- 
cocks, and  brought  her  down  the  corkscrew  staircase  of 
the  pavilion  before  dawn.  She  looked  upon  herself  only 
as  the  trustee  of  this  magnificent  estate,  which  she  was 
taking  care  of  for  her  son,  and  wished  to  give  back  to  him 
in  perfect  condition  on  the  day  when,  rich  enough  and  tired 
of  living  with  the  Turks,  he  would  come,  according  to  his 
promise,  to  live  with  her  beneath  the  shade  of  Saint- 
Romans. 

Then,  too,  what  universal  and  indefatigable  supervision ! 
Through  the  mists  of  early  morning  the  farm-servants  heard 
her  rough  and  husky  voice :  "  Olivier,  Peyrol,  Audibert. 
Come  on !  It  is  four  o'clock."  Then  she  would  hasten  to 
the  immense  kitchen,  where  the  maids,  heavy  with  sleep, 
were  heating  the  porridge  over  the  crackling,  new-lit  fire. 
They  gave  her  a  little  dish  of  red  Marseilles-ware  full  of 
boiled  chestnuts — frugal  breakfast  of  bygone  times,  which 
nothing  would  have  induced  her  to  change.  At  once  she 
was  off,  hurrying  with  great  strides,  her  large  silver  key- 
ring at  her  belt,  whence  jingled  all  her  keys,  her  plate  in 
her  hand,  balanced  by  the  distaff  which  she  held,  in  work- 
ing order,  under  her  arm,  for  she  spun  all  day  long,  and  did 
not  stop  even  to  eat  her  chestnuts.  On  the  way,  a  glance  at 
the  stables,  still  dark,  where  the  animals  were  moving  dully, 
at  the  stifling  pens  with  their  rows  of  impatient  and  out- 
stretched muzzles ;  and  the  first  glimmers  of  light  creep- 
ing over  the  layers  of  stones  that  supported  the  embank- 
ment of  the  park,  lit  up  the  figure  of  the  old  woman,  running 
in  the  dew,  with  the  lightness  of  a  girl,  despite  her  seventy 
years — verifying  exactly  each  morning  all  the  wealth  of  the 
domain,  anxious  to  make  sure  that  the  night  had  not  taken 
away  the  statues  and  the  vases,  uprooted  the  hundred-year- 
old  quincunx,  dried  up  the  springs  which  filtered  into  their 
resounding  basins.    Then  the  full  sunlight  of  midday,  hum- 

176 


The   Festivities   in   Honour  of  the  Bey 

ming  and  vibrating,  showed  still,  on  the  sand  of  an  alley, 
against  the  white  wall  of  a  terrace,  the  long  figure  of  the  old 
woman,  elegant  and  straight  as  her  spindle,  picking  up  bits 
of  dead  wood,  breaking  ofif  some  uneven  branch  of  a  shrub, 
careless  of  the  shock  it  caused  her  and  the  sweat  which 
broke  out  over  her  skin.  Towards  this  hour  another  figure 
was  to  be  seen  in  the  park  also — less  active,  less  noisy, 
dragging  rather  than  walking,  leaning  against  the  walls  and 
railings — a  poor  round-shouldered  being,  shaky  and  stiff, 
a  figure  from  which  life  seemed  to  have  gone  out,  never 
speaking,  when  he  was  tired  giving  a  little  plaintive  cry 
towards  the  servant,  who  was  always  near,  who  helped  him 
to  sit  down,  to  crouch  upon  some  step,  where  he  would  stay 
for  hours,  motionless,  mute,  his  mouth  hanging,  his  eyes 
blinking,  hushed  by  the  strident  monotony  of  the  grasshop- 
per's cry — a  blotch  of  humanity  in  the  splendid  horizon. 

This,  this  was  the  first-born,  Bernard's  brother,  the  dar- 
ling child  of  his  father  and  mother,  the  glorious  hope  of 
the  nail-maker's  family.  Slaves,  like  so  many  others  in 
the  Midi,  to  the  superstition  of  the  rights  of  primogeni- 
ture, they  had  made  every  possible  sacrifice  to  send  to  Paris 
their  fine,  ambitious  lad,  who  set  out  assured  of  success, 
the  admiration  of  all  the  young  women  of  the  town ;  and 
Paris,  after  having  for  six  years  beaten,  twisted,  and 
squeezed  in  its  great  vat  the  brilliant  southern  stripling, 
after  having  burnt  him  with  all  its  vitriol,  rolled  him  in  all 
its  mud,  finished  by  sending  him  back  in  this  state  of  wreck- 
age, stupefied  and  paralyzed — killing  his  father  with  sorrow, 
and  forcing  his  mother  to  sell  her  all,  and  live  as  a  sort  of 
char-woman  in  the  better-class  houses  of  her  own  country- 
side. Lucky  it  was  that  just  then,  when  this  broken  piece 
of  humanity,  discharged  from  all  the  hospitals  of  Paris,  was 
sent  back  by  public  charity  to  Bourg-Saint-Andeol,  Bernard 
— he  whom  they  called  Cadet,  as  in  these  southern  fami- 
lies, half  Arab  as  they  are,  the  eldest  always  takes  the  fam- 
ily name,  and  the  last-comer  that  of  Cadet — Bernard  was 
at  Tunis  making  his  fortune,  and  sending  home  money  reg- 
ularly. But  what  pain  it  was  for  the  poor  mother  to  owe 
everything,  even  the  life,  the  comfort  of  the  sad  invalid,  to 

177 


The  Nabob 

the  robust  and  courageous  boy  whom  his  father  and  she 
had  loved  without  any  tenderness ;  who,  since  he  was  five 
years  old,  they  had  treated  as  a  "  hand,"  because  he  was  very 
strong,  woolly-headed,  and  ugly,  and  even  then  knew  better 
than  any  one  in  the  house  how  to  deal  in  old  nails.  Ah! 
how  she  longec  to  have  him  near  her,  her  Cadet,  to  make 
some  return  to  him  for  all  the  good  he  did,  to  pay  at  last 
the  debt  of  love  and  motherly  tenderness  that  she  owed 
him ! 

But,  you  see,  these  princely  fortunes  have  the  burdens, 
the  wearinesses  of  royal  lives.  This  poor  mother,  in  her 
dazzling  surroundings,  was  very  like  a  real  queen :  famil- 
iar with  long  exiles,  cruel  separations,  and  the  trials  which 
detract  from  greatness ;  one  of  her  sons  forever  stupefied, 
the  other  far  away,  seldom  writing,  absorbed  in  his  busi- 
ness, saying,  "  I  will  come,"  and  never  coming.  She  had 
only  seen  him  once  in  twelve  years,  and  then  in  the  whirl 
of  a  visit  of  the  Bey  to  Saint-Romans — a  rush  of  horses  and 
carriages,  of  fireworks,  and  of  banquets.  He  had  gone  in 
the  suite  of  his  monarch,  having  scarcely  time  to  say  good- 
bye to  his  old  mother,  to  whom  there  remained  of  this 
great  joy  only  a  few  pictures  in  the  illustrated  papers,  show- 
ing Bernard  Jansoulet  arriving  at  the  castle  with  Ahmed, 
and  presenting  his  mother.  Is  it  not  thus  that  kings  and 
queens  have  their  family  feelings  exploited  in  the  journals? 
There  was  also  a  cedar  of  Lebanon,  brought  from  the  other 
end  of  the  world,  a  regular  mountain  of  a  tree,  whose  trans- 
port had  been  as  difficult  and  as  costly  as  that  of  Cleopa- 
tra's needle,  and  whose  erection  as  a  souvenir  of  the  royal 
visit  by  dint  of  men,  money,  and  teams  had  shaken  the  very 
foundations.  But  this  time,  at  least,  knowing  him  to  be 
in  France  for  several  months — perhaps  for  good — she  hoped 
to  have  her  Bernard  to  herself.  And  now  he  returned  to 
her,  one  fir :  evening,  enveloped  in  the  same  triumphant 
glory,  in  the  same  official  display,  surrounded  by  a  crowd 
of  counts,  of  marquises,  of  fine  gentlemen  from  Paris, 
filling,  they  and  their  servants,  the  two  large  wagonettes 
she  had  sent  to  meet  them  at  the  little  station  of  Gififas  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Rhone. 

178 


The   Festivities   in   Honour  of  the  Bey 

"  Come,  give  me  a  kiss,  my  dear  mother.  There  is 
nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  in  giving  a  good  hug  to  the  boy 
you  haven't  seen  all  these  years.  Besides,  all  these  gen- 
tlemen are  our  friends.  This  is  the  Marquis  de  Mon- 
pavon,  the  Marquis  de  Bois  I'Hery.  Ah !  the  time  is  past 
when  I  brought  you  to  eat  vegetable  soup  with  us,  little 
Cabassu  and  Jean-Baptiste  Bompain.  You  know  M.  de 
Gery?  With  my  old  friend  Cardailhac,  whom  I  now  pre- 
sent, that  makes  the  first  batch.  There  are  others  to 
come.  Prepare  yourself  for  a  fine  upsetting.  We  entertain 
the  Bey  in  four  days." 

"  The  Bey  again !  "  said  the  old  woman,  astounded.  "  I 
thought  he  was  dead." 

Jansoulet  and  his  guests  could  not  help  laughing  at  this 
comical  terror,  accentuated  by  her  southern  intonation. 

"  It  is  another,  mamma.  There  is  always  a  Bey — thank 
goodness.  But  don't  be  afraid.  You  won't  have  so  much 
bother  this  time.  Our  friend  Cardailhac  has  undertaken 
everything.  We  are  going  to  have  magnificent  celebra- 
tions. In  the  meantime,  quick — dinner  and  our  rooms. 
Our  Parisians  are  worn  out." 

"  Everything  is  ready,  my  son,"  said  the  old  lady  quiet- 
ly, stiff  and  straight  under  her  Cambrai  cap,  the  head-dress 
with  its  yellowing  flaps,  which  she  never  left  oflf  even  for 
great  occasions.  Good  fortune  had  not  changed  her.  She 
was  a  true  peasant  of  the  Rhone  valley,  independent  and 
proud,  without  any  of  the  sly  humilities  of  Balzac's  country 
folk,  too  artless  to  be  purse-proud.  One  pride  alone  she 
had — that  of  showing  her  son  with  what  scrupulous  care 
she  had  discharged  her  duties  as  guardian.  Not  an  atom 
of  dust,  not  a  trace  of  damp  on  the  walls.  All  the  splen- 
did ground-floor,  the  reception-rooms  with  their  hangings 
of  iridescent  silk  new  out  of  the  dust  sheets,  the  long 
summer  galleries  cool  and  sonorous,  paved  with  mosaics 
and  furnished  with  a  flowery  lightness  in  the  old-fashioned 
style,  with  Louis  XIV  sofas  in  cane  and  silk,  the  immense 
dining-room  decorated  with  palms  and  flowers,  the  billiard- 
room  with  its  rows  of  brilliant  ivory  balls,  its  crystal  chan- 
deliers and  its  suits  of  armour — all  the  length  of  the  castle, 

179 


The  Nabob 

through  its  tall  windows,  wide  open  to  the  stately  terrace, 
lay  displayed  for  the  admiration  of  the  visitors.  The  mar- 
vellous beauty  of  the  horizon  and  the  setting  sun,  its  own 
serene  and  peaceful  richness,  were  reflected  in  the  panes  of 
glass  and  in  the  waxed  and  polished  wood  with  the  same 
clearness  as  in  the  mirror-like  ornamental  lakes,  the  pic- 
tures of  the  poplars  and  the  swans.  The  setting  was  so 
lovely,  the  whole  effect  so  grand,  that  the  clamorous  and 
tasteless  luxury  melted  away,  disappeared,  even  to  the  most 
hypercritical  eyes, 

"  There  is  something  to  work  on,"  said  Cardailhac,  the 
manager,  his  glass  in  his  eye,  his  hat  on  one  side,  com- 
bining already  his  stage-effect.  And  the  haughty  air  of 
Monpavon,  whom  the  head-dress  of  the  old  woman  re- 
ceiving them  on  the  terrace  had  shocked,  gave  way  to  a 
condescending  smile.  Here  was  something  to  work  on, 
certainly,  and,  guided  by  persons  of  taste,  their  friend  Jan- 
soulet  could  really  give  his  Moorish  Highness  an  exceed- 
ingly suitable  reception.  All  the  evening  they  talked  of 
nothing  else.  In  the  sumptuous  dining-room,  their  elbows 
on  the  table,  full  of  meat  and  drink,  they  planned  and  dis- 
cussed. Cardailhac,  who  had  great  ideas,  had  already  his 
plan  complete. 

"  First  of  all,  you  give  me  cartc-blanchc,  don't  you,  Na- 
bob? Carte-blanche,  old  fellow,  and  make  that  fat  Hemer- 
lingue  burst  with  envy." 

Then  the  manager  explained  his  scheme.  The  festivi- 
ties were  to  be  divided  into  days,  as  at  Vaux,  when  Fouquet 
entertained  Louis  XIV.  One  day  a  play;  another  day 
Proven9al  games,  dances,  bull-fights,  local  bands ;  the  third 
day —  And  already  the  manager's  hand  sketched  pro- 
grammes, announcements ;  while  Bois  I'Hery  slept,  his 
hands  in  his  pockets,  his  chair  tilted  back,  his  cigar  sunk 
in  the  corner  of  his  sneering  mouth ;  and  the  Marquis  de 
Monpavon,  always  on  his  best  behaviour,  straightened  his 
shirt-front  to  keep  himself  awake. 

De  Gery  had  left  them  early.  He  had  sought  refuge  be- 
side the  old  mother — who  had  known  him  as  a  boy,  him  and 
his  brothers — in  the  humble  parlour  of  the  brightly  dec- 

180 


The   Festivities  in   Honour  of  the  Bey 

orated,  white-curtained  house,  where  the  Nabob's  mother 
tried  to  perpetuate  her  humble  past  with  the  help  of  a  few 
relics  saved  from  its  wreck. 

Paul  chatted  quietly  with  the  fine  old  woman,  admiring 
her  severe  and  regular  features,  her  white  hair  massed  to- 
gether like  the  hemp  of  her  distaff,  as  she  sat  holding  her" 
self  straight  in  her  seat — never  in  her  life  having  leaned 
back  or  sat  in  an  arm-chair — a  little  green  shawl  folded 
tightly  across  her  flat  breast.  He  called  her  Frangoise,  and 
she  called  him  M.  Paul.  They  were  old  friends.  And  guess 
what  they  talked  about?  Of  her  grandchildren,  of  Ber- 
nard's three  sons,  whom  she  did  not  know  and  so  much 
longed  to  know. 

"Ah,  M.  Paul,  if  you  knew  how  I  long  to  see  them! 
I  should  have  been  so  happy  if  he  had  brought  them,  my 
three  little  ones,  instead  of  these  fine  gentlemen.  Think, 
I  have  never  seen  them,  only  their  portraits  which  are  over 
there.  I  am  a  little  afraid  of  the  mother,  she  is  quite  a 
great  lady,  a  Miss  Afchin.  But  them,  the  children,  I  am 
sure  they  are  not  proud,  and  they  would  love  their  old 
granny.  It  would  be  like  having  their  father  a  little  boy 
again,  and  I  would  give  to  them  what  I  did  not  give  to  him. 
You  see,  M.  Paul,  parents  are  not  always  just.  They  have 
their  favourites.  But  God  is  just,  he  is.  The  ones  that 
are  most  petted  and  spoiled  at  the  expense  of  the  others, 
you  should  see  what  he  does  to  them  for  you!  And  the 
favour  of  the  old  often  brings  misfortune  to  the  young!  " 

She  sighed,  looking  towards  the  large  recess  from  be- 
hind the  curtains  of  which  there  came,  at  intervals,  a  long 
sobbing  breath  like  the  sleeping  wail  of  a  beaten  child  who 
has  cried  bitterly. 

A  heavy  step  on  the  staircase,  a  loud,  sweet  voice  say- 
ing, very  softly,  "  It  is  I ;  don't  move,"  and  Jansoulet  ap- 
peared. He  knew  his  mother's  habits,  how  her  lamp  was 
the  last  to  go  out,  so  when  every  one  in  the  castle  was 
in  bed,  he  came  to  see  her,  to  chat  with  her  for  a  little,  to 
rejoice  her  heart  with  an  affection  he  could  not  show  be- 
fore the  others.  "  Oh,  stay,  my  dear  Paul ;  we  don't  mind 
you,"  and  once  more  a  child  in  his  mother's  presence,  with 

i8i 


The  Nabob 

loving  gestures  and  words  that  were  really  touching,  the 
huge  man  threw  himself  on  the  ground  at  her  feet.  She  was 
very  happy  to  have  him  there,  so  dearly  near,  but  she  was 
just  a  little  shy.  She  looked  upon  him  as  an  all-powerful 
being,  extraordinary,  raising  him,  in  her  simplicity,  to  the 
greatness  of  an  Olympian  commanding  the  thunder  and 
lightning.  She  spoke  to  him,  asking  about  his  friends,  his 
business,  but  not  daring  to  put  the  question  she  had  asked 
de  Gery  :  "  Why  haven't  my  grandchildren  come  ?  "  But  he 
spoke  of  them  himself.  "  They  are  at  school,  mother. 
Whenever  the  holidays  begin  they  shall  be  sent  with  Bom- 
pain.  You  remember  Jean-Baptiste  Bompain?  And  you 
shall  keep  them  for  two  long  months.  They  will  come  to 
you  and  make  you  tell  them  stories,  and  they  will  go  to 
sleep  with  their  heads  on  your  lap — there,  like  that." 

And  he  himself,  putting  his  heavy,  woolly  head  on  her 
knee,  remembered  the  happy  evenings  of  his  childhood 
when  he  would  go  to  sleep  so,  if  she  would  let  him,  and 
his  brother  had  not  taken  up  all  the  room.  He  tasted  for 
the  first  time  since  his  return  to  France  a  few  minutes  of 
delicious  peace  away  from  his  restless  and  artificial  life,  as 
he  lay  pressed  to  his  old  mother's  heart,  in  the  deep  silence 
of  night  and  of  the  country  which  one  feels  hovering  over 
him  in  limitless  space  ;  the  only  sounds  the  beating  of  that  old 
faithful  heart  and  the  sv^ing  of  the  pendulum  of  the  ancient 
clock  in  the  corner.  Suddenly  came  the  same  long  sigh, 
as  of  a  child  fallen  asleep  sobbing.  Jansoulet  lifted  his 
head  and  looked  at  his  mother,  and  softly  asked :  "  Is 
it — ?"  "Yes,"  she  said,  "I  make  him  sleep  there.  He 
might  need  me  in  the  night." 

"  I  would  like  to  see  him,  to  embrace  him." 

"  Come,  then."  She  rose  very  gravely,  took  the  lamp 
and  went  to  the  alcove,  of  which  she  softly  drew  the  large 
curtain,  making  a  sign  to  her  son  to  draw  near  quietly. 

He  was  sleeping.  And  no  doubt  something  lived  in 
him  while  he  slept  that  was  not  there  when  he  waked,  for 
instead  of  the  flaccid  immobility  in  which  he  was  congealed 
all  day,  he  was  now  shaken  by  sudden  starts,  and  on  the 
inexpressive  and  death-like  face  there  were  lines  of  pain 

182 


The   Festivities   in   Honour  of  the  Bey 

and  the  contractions  of  suffering  life.  Jansoulet,  much 
affected,  looked  long  at  those  wasted  features,  faded  and 
sickly,  where  the  beard  grew  with  a  surprising  vigour. 
Then  he  bent  down,  put  his  lips  to  the  damp  brow,  and 
feeling  him  move,  said  very  gravely  and  respectfully,  as 
one  speaks  to  the  head  of  the  family,  "  Good-night,  my 
brother."  Perhaps  the  captive  soul  had  heard  it  from  the 
depths  of  its  dark  and  abject  limbo.  For  the  lips  moved 
and  a  long  moan  answered  him,  a  far-away  wail,  a  despair- 
ing cry,  which  filled  with  helpless  tears  the  glance  ex- 
changed between  Frangoise  and  her  son,  and  tore  from 
them  both  the  same  cry  in  which  their  sorrow  met,  "  Pe- 
caire,"  the  local  word  which  expressed  all  pity  and  all  ten- 
derness. 

The  next  day,  from  early  morning,  the  commotion  be- 
gan with  the  arrival  of  the  actors,  an  avalanche  of  hats  and 
wigs  and  big  boots,  of  short  skirts  and  affected  cries,  of 
floating  veils  and  fresh  make-ups.  The  women  were  in  a 
great  majority,  as  Cardailhac  thought  that  for  a  Bey  the 
play  was  of  little  consequence,  and  that  all  that  was  need- 
ful was  to  have  catchy  tunes  in  pretty  mouths,  to  show 
fine  arms  and  shapely  legs  in  the  easy  costume  of  light 
opera.  All  the  well-made  celebrities  of  his  theatre  were 
there,  Amy  Ferat  at  the  head  of  them,  a  bold  young  wom- 
an who  had  already  had  her  teeth  in  the  gold  of  several 
crowns.  There  were  two  or  three  well-known  men  whose 
pale  faces  made  the  same  kind  of  chalky  and  spectral  spots 
amid  the  green  of  the  trees  as  the  plaster  of  the  statues. 
All  these  people,  enlivened  by  the  journey,  the  surprise  of 
the  country,  the  overflowing  hospitality,  as  well  as  the  hope 
of  making  something  out  of  this  sojourn  of  Beys  and  Nabobs 
and  other  gilded  fools,  wanted  only  to  play,  to  jest  and 
sing  with  the  vulgar  boisterousness  of  a  crew  of  freshly 
discharged  Seine  boatmen.  But  Cardailhac  meant  other- 
wise. No  sooner  were  they  unpacked,  freshened  up,  and 
luncheon  over  than,  quick,  the  parts,  the  rehearsals !  There 
was  no  time  to  lose.  They  worked  in  the  small  drawing- 
room  next  the  summer  gallery,  where  the  theatre  was  al- 
ready being  fitted  up ;  and  the  noise  of  hammers,  the  songs 

183 


The  Nabob 

from  the  burlesque,  the  shrill  voices,  the  conductor's  fiddle, 
mingled  with  the  loud  trumpet-like  calls  of  the  peacocks, 
and  rose  upon  the  hot  southern  wind,  which,  not  recognising 
it  as  only  the  mad  rattle  of  its  own  grasshoppers,  shook  it 
all  disdainfully  on  the  trailing  tip  of  its  wings. 

Seated  in  the  centre  of  the  terrace,  as  in  the  stage-box 
of  his  theatre,  Cardailhac  watched  the  rehearsals,  gave  or- 
ders to  a  crowd  of  workmen  and  gardeners,  had  trees  cut 
down  as  spoiling  the  view,  designed  the  triumphal  arches, 
sent  off  telegrams,  express  messengers  to  mayors,  to  sub- 
prefects,  to  Aries — to  arrange  for  a  deputation  of  girls  in 
national  costume ;  to  Barbantane,  where  the  best  dancers 
are ;  to  Faraman,  famous  for  its  wild  bulls  and  Camargue 
horses.  And  as  the  name  of  Jansoulet,  joined  to  that  of  the 
Bey  of  Tunis,  flared  at  the  end  of  all  these  messages,  on 
all  sides  they  hastened  to  obey ;  the  telegraph  wires  were 
never  still,  messengers  wore  out  horses  on  the  roads.  And 
this  little  Sardanapalus  of  the  stage  called  Cardailhac  re- 
peated ever,  "  There's  something  to  work  on  here,"  happy 
to  scatter  gold  at  random  like  handfuls  of  seed,  to  have  a 
stage  of  forty  leagues  to  stir  about — the  whole  of  Provence, 
of  which  this  rabid  Parisian  was  a  native  and  whose  pic- 
turesque resources  he  knew  to  the  core. 

Dispossessed  of  her  office,  the  old  mother  never  ap- 
peared. She  occupied  herself  with  the  farm,  and  her  in- 
valid. She  was  terrified  by  this  crowd  of  visitors,  these 
insolent  servants  whom  it  was  difficult  to  know  from  the 
masters,  these  women  with  their  impudent  and  elegant  airs, 
these  clean-shaven  men  who  looked  like  bad  priests — all 
these  mad-caps  who  chased  each  other  at  night  in  the  cor- 
ridors with  pillows,  wdtli  wet  sponges,  with  curtain  tassels 
they  had  torn  down,  for  weapons.  Even  after  dinner  she 
no  longer  had  her  son ;  he  was  obliged  to  stay  with  his 
guests,  whose  number  grew  each  day  as  the  fetes  ap- 
proached ;  not  even  the  resource  of  talking  to  M.  Paul 
about  her  grandchildren  was  left,  for  Jansoulet,  a  little  em- 
barrassed by  the  seriousness  of  his  friend,  had  sent  him  to 
spend  a  few  days  with  his  brothers.  And  the  careful  house- 
keeper, to  whom  they  came  every  minute  asking  the  keys 

184 


The   Festivities   in   Honour  of  the  Bey 

for  linen,  for  a  room,  for  extra  silver,  thought  of  her  piles 
of  beautiful  dishes,  of  the  sacking  of  her  cupboards  and 
larders,  remembered  the  state  in  which  the  old  Bey's  visit 
had  left  the  castle,  devastated  as  by  a  cyclone,  and  said  in 
her  patois  as  she  feverishly  wet  the  linen  on  her  distaff: 
"  May  lightning  strike  them,  this  Bey  and  all  the  Beys !  " 
At  last  the  day  came,  the  great  day  which  is  still 
spoken  of  in  all  the  country-side.  Towards  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  after  a  sumptuous  luncheon  at  which  the 
old  mother  presided,  this  time  in  a  new  cap,  over  a  com- 
pany composed  of  Parisian  celebrities,  prefects,  deputies, 
all  in  full  uniform,  mayors  with  their  sashes,  priests  new- 
shaven,  Jansoulet  in  full  dress  stepped  out  on  to  the  terrace 
surrounded  by  his  guests.  He  saw  before  him  in  that  splen- 
did frame  of  magnificent  natural  scenery,  in  the  midst  of 
flags  and  arches  and  coats  of  arms,  a  vast  swarm  of  people, 
a  flare  of  brilliant  costumes  in  rows  on  the  slopes,  at  cor- 
ners of  the  walks ;  here,  grouped  in  beds,  like  flowers  on  a 
lawn,  the  prettiest  girls  of  Aries,  whose  little  dark  heads 
showed  delicately  from  beneath  their  lace  fichus;  farther 
down  were  the  dancers  from  Barbantane — eight  tambour- 
ine players  in  a  line,  ready  to  begin,  their  hands  joined,  rib- 
bons flying,  hats  cocked,  and  the  red  scarves  round  their 
hips ;  beyond  them,  on  the  succeeding  terraces,  were  the 
choral  societies  in  rows,  dressed  in  black  with  red  caps, 
their  standard-bearer  in  front,  grave,  important,  his  teeth 
clinched,  holding  high  his  carved  staff;  farther  down  still, 
on  a  vast  circular  space  now  arranged  as  an  amphitheatre, 
were  the  black  bulls,  and  the  herdsmen  from  Camargue, 
seated  on  their  long-haired  white  horses,  their  high  boots 
over  their  knees,  at  their  wrists  an  uplifted  spear;  then 
more  flags,  helmets,  bayonets,  and  decorations  right  down 
to  the  triumphal  arch  at  the  gates ;  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
see,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhone  (across  which  the  two 
railways  had  made  a  pontoon  bridge  that  they  might  come 
straight  from  the  station  to  Saint-Romans),  whole  villages 
were  assembling  from  every  side,  crowding  to  the  Giffas 
road  in  a  cloud  of  dust  and  a  confusion  of  cries,  sitting  at 
the  hedge-sides,  clinging  to  the  elms,  squeezed  in  carts — a 

185 


The  Nabob 

living  wall  for  the  procession.  Above  all  a  great  white  sun 
which  scintillated  in  every  direction — on  the  copper  of  a 
tambourine,  on  the  point  of  a  trident,  on  the  fringe  of  a 
banner ;  and  in  the  midst  the  great  proud  Rhone  carrying 
to  the  sea  the  moving  picture  of  this  royal  feast.  Before 
these  marvels,  where  shone  all  the  gold  of  his  coffers,  the 
Nabob  had  a  sudden  feeling  of  admiration  and  of  pride. 

"  This  is  beautiful,"  he  said,  paling ;  and  behind  him  his 
mother  murmured,  "  It  is  too  beautiful  for  man.  It  is  as  if 
God  were  coming."  She  was  pale,  too,  but  with  an  un- 
utterable fear. 

The  sentiment  of  the  old  Catholic  peasant  was  indeed 
that  which  was  vaguely  felt  by  all  those  people  massed 
upon  the  roads  as  though  for  the  passing  of  a  gigantic 
Corpus  Christi  procession,  and  whom  this  visit  of  an  Eastern 
prince  to  a  child  of  their  own  country  reminded  of  the 
legends  of  the  Magi,  or  the  advent  of  Gaspard  the  Moor, 
bringing  to  the  carpenter's  son  myrrh  and  the  triple  crown. 

As  Jansoulet  was  being  warmly  congratulated  by  every 
one,  Cardailhac,  who  had  not  been  seen  since  morning, 
suddenly  appeared,  triumphant  and  perspiring.  "  Didn't  I 
tell  you  there  was  something  to  work  on !  Eh  ?  Isn't  it 
fine?  What  a  scene!  I  bet  our  Parisians  would  pay  dear 
to  be  at  such  a  first  performance  as  this ! "  And  lowering 
his  voice,  on  account  of  the  mother  who  was  quite  near, 
"  Have  you  seen  our  country  girls  ?  No  ?  Examine  them 
more  closely — the  first,  the  one  in  front,  who  is  to  present 
the  bouquet." 

"Why,  :.  is  Amy  Ferat!" 

"  Just  so.  You  see,  old  fellow,  if  the  Bey  should  throw 
his  handkerchief  amid  that  group  of  loveliness  there  must 
be  some  one  t"t  pick  it  up.  They  wouldn't  understand, 
these  innocents.  Oh,  I  have  thought  of  everything,  you 
will  see.  Everything  is  prepared  and  regulated  just  as  on 
the  stage.     Garden  side — farm  side." 

Here,  to  give  an  idea  of  the  perfect  organization,  the 
manager  raised  his  stick.  Immediately  his  gesture  was 
repeated  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  the  park,  and  from 
the  choral  societies,  from  the  brass  bands,  from  the  tam- 

186 


The   Festivities  in   Honour  of  the  Bey 

bourines,  there  burst  forth  the  majestic  strains  of  the  popu- 
lar southern  song,  Grand  Solcil  dc  la  Provence.  Voices 
and  instruments  rose  in  the  sunlight,  the  banners  filled, 
the  dancers  swayed  to  their  first  movement,  while  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river  a  report  flew  like  a  breeze  that  the 
Bey  had  arrived  unexpectedly  by  another  route.  The 
manager  made  another  gesture,  and  the  immense  orchestra 
was  hushed.  The  response  was  slower  this  time,  there 
were  little  delays,  a  hail  of  words  lost  in  the  leaves ;  but  one 
could  not  expect  more  from  a  concourse  of  three  thousand 
people.  Just  then  the  carriages  appeared,  the  state  coaches 
which  had  been  used  on  the  occasion  of  the  last  Bey's  visit 
— two  large  chariots,  pink  and  gold  as  at  Tunis.  Mme.  Jan- 
soulet  had  tended  them  almost  as  holy  relics,  and  they  had 
come  out  of  their  coverings,  with  their  panels,  their  hang- 
ings and  their  gold  fringes,  as  shining  and  new  as  the  day 
they  were  made.  Here  again  Cardailhac's  ingenuity  had 
been  freely  exercised.  He  had  thought  horses  looked  too 
heavy  for  those  unreal  fragilities,  so  he  had  harnessed  in- 
stead eight  mules,  with  white  reins,  decorated  with  bows 
and  pompons  and  bells,  and  caparisoned  from  head  to 
foot  in  that  marvellous  Esparto  work — an  art  Provence  has 
borrowed  from  the  Moors  and  perfected.  How  could  the 
Bey  not  be  pleased  ! 

The  Nabob,  Monpavon,  the  prefect,  and  one  of  the 
generals  got  into  the  first  coach;  the  others  filled  the  suc- 
ceeding carriages.  The  priests  and  the  mayors,  swelling 
with  importance,  rushed  to  the  head  of  the  choral  societies 
of  their  villages  which  were  to  go  in  front,  and  all  moved  off 
along  the  road  to  Giffas. 

The  weather  was  magnificent,  but  hot  and  heavy,  three 
months  in  advance  of  the  season,  as  often  happens  in  this 
impetuous  country,  where  everything  is  in  a  hurry  and 
comes  too  soon.  Although  there  was  not  a  cloud  to  be 
seen,  the  stillness  of  the  atmosphere — the  wind  had  fallen 
suddenly  like  a  loose  sail — dazzling  and  heated  white,  a 
silent  solemnity  hanging  over  all,  foretold  a  storm  brewing 
in  some  corner  of  the  horizon.  The  immense  torpor  of 
things  gradually  influenced  the  living  beings.     One  heard 

187 


The  Nabob 

too  distinctly  the  tinkling  mule-bells,  the  heavy  steps  in 
the  dust  of  the  band  of  singers  whom  Cardailhac  was  placing 
at  regular  distances  in  the  seething  human  hedge  which 
bordered  the  road  and  was  lost  in  the  distance ;  a  sudden 
call,  children's  voices,  and  the  cry  of  the  water-seller,  that 
necessary  accompaniment  of  all  open-air  festivals  in  the 
Midi. 

"  Open  your  window,  general,  it  is  stifling,"  said  Mon- 
pavon,  crimson,  fearing  for  his  paint,  and  the  lowered  win- 
dows exposed  to  the  populace  these  high  functionaries 
mopping  their  august  faces,  strained,  agonized,  by  the  same 
expression  of  waiting — waiting  for  the  Bey,  for  the  storm, 
waiting  for  something,  in  short. 

Still  another  triumphal  arch.  It  was  at  Giflfas,  its  long, 
stony  street  strewn  with  green  palms,  and  its  sordid  houses 
gay  with  flowers  and  bright  hangings.  The  station  was 
outside  the  village,  white  and  square,  stuck  like  a  thimble  on 
the  roadside — true  type  of  a  little  country  station,  lost  in  the 
midst  of  vineyards,  never  having  any  one  in  it  except  per- 
haps sometimes  an  old  woman  and  her  parcels  waiting  in  a 
corner,  come  three  hours  before  the  time. 

In  honour  of  the  Bey  this  slight  building  had  been 
rigged  out  with  flags,  adorned  with  rugs  and  divans ;  a 
splendid  buffet  had  been  fitted  up  with  sherbets,  all  ready 
for  his  Highness.  Once  there  and  out  of  the  carriage  the 
Nabob  tried  to  dispel  the  feeling  of  uneasiness  which  he,  too, 
had  begun  to  suffer  from.  Prefects,  generals,  deputies, 
people  in  dress-coats  and  uniforms,  were  standing  about  on 
the  platform  in  imposing  groups,  their  faces  solemn,  their 
mouths  pursed,  their  bodies  swaying  and  jerking  in  the 
knowing  way  of  public  functionaries  who  feel  people  are 
looking  at  them.  And  you  can  imagine  how  noses  were  flat- 
tened against  the  windows  to  see  all  this  hierarchical  swell- 
dom. There  was  Monpavon,  his  shirt-front  bulging  like  a 
whipped  egg,  Cardailhac  breathlessly  giving  his  last  or- 
ders, and  the  honest  face  of  Jansoulet,  whose  sparkling  eyes, 
set  over  his  fat,  sunburnt  cheeks,  looked  like  two  gold 
nails  in  a  goffering  of  Spanish  leather.  Suddenly  an  elec- 
tric bell  rang.    The  station-master,  in  a  new  uniform,  ran 

i88 


The   Festivities   in   Honour  of  the  Bey 

down  the  line :  "  Gentlemen,  the  train  is  signalled.  It  will 
be  here  in  eight  minutes."  Every  one  started,  and  with 
the  same  instinctive  movement  pulled  out  their  watches. 
Only  six  minutes  more.  Then  in  the  great  silence  some 
one  said :  "  Look  over  there !  "  To  the  right,  on  the  side 
from  which  the  train  was  to  come,  two  great  slopes,  cov- 
ered with  vines,  made  a  sort  of  funnel  into  which  the  track 
disappeared  as  though  swallowed  up.  Just  then  all  this 
hollow  was  as  black  as  ink,  darkened  by  an  enormous 
cloud,  a  bar  of  gloom,  cutting  the  blue  of  the  sky  perpen- 
dicularly, throwing  out  banks  that  resembled  cliflfs  of  basalt 
on  which  the  light  broke  all  white  like  moonshine.  In  the 
solemnity  of  the  deserted  track,  over  the  lines  of  silent  rails 
where  one  felt  that  everything  was  ready  for  the  coming  of 
the  prince,  it  was  terrifying  to  see  this  aerial  crag  approach- 
ing, throwing  its  shadow  before  it,  to  watch  the  play  of  the 
perspective  which  gave  the  cloud  a  slow,  majestic  move- 
ment, and  the  shadow  the  rapidity  of  a  galloping  horse. 
"  What  a  storm  we  shall  have  directly !  "  was  the  thought 
which  came  to  every  one,  but  none  had  voice  to  express  it, 
for  a  strident  whistle  sounded  and  the  train  appeared  at  the 
end  of  the  dark  funnel.  A  real  royal  train,  rapid  and  short, 
and  decorated  with  flags.  The  smoking,  roaring  engine 
carried  a  large  bouquet  of  roses  on  its  breastplate,  like  a 
bridesmaid  at  some  leviathan  wedding. 

It  came  out  of  the  funnel  at  full  speed,  but  slowed  down 
as  it  approached.  The  functionaries  grouped  themselves, 
straightened  their  backs,  hitched  their  swords  and  eased 
their  collars,  while  Jansoulet  went  down  the  track  to  meet 
the  train,  an  obsequious  smile  on  his  lips,  his  back  curved 
already  for  the  "  Salam  Alek."  The  train  proceeded  very 
slowly.  Jansoulet  thought  it  had  stopped,  and  put  his  hand 
on  the  door  of  the  royal  carriage,  glittering  with  gold  under 
the  black  sky.  But,  doubtless,  the  impetus  had  been  too 
strong,  the  train  continued  to  advance,  the  Nabob  walking 
beside  it,  trying  to  open  the  accursed  door  which  was  stuck 
fast,  and  making  signs  to  the  engine-driver.  The  engine  was 
not  answering.  **  Stop,  stop,  there ! "  It  did  not  stop. 
Losing  patience,  he  jumped  on  to  the  velvet-covered  step, 

189 


The  Nabob 

and  in  that  fiery,  impulsive  manner  of  his  which  had  so  de- 
lighted the  old  Bey,  he  cried,  his  woolly  head  at  the  door, 
"  Saint-Romans  station,  your  Highness." 

You  know  the  sort  of  vague  light  there  is  in  dreams, 
the  colourless  empty  atmosphere  where  everything  has 
the  look  of  a  phantom.  Jansoulet  was  suddenly  enveloped 
in  this,  stricken,  paralyzed.  He  wanted  to  speak,  words 
would  not  come,  his  nerveless  hand  held  the  door  so  feebly 
that  he  almost  fell  backward.  What  had  he  seen?  On  a 
divan  at  the  back  of  the  saloon,  reposing  on  his  elbow,  his 
beautiful  dark  head  with  its  long  silky  beard  leaning  on 
his  hand,  was  the  Bey,  close  wrapped  in  his  Oriental  coat, 
without  other  ornaments  than  the  large  ribbon  of  the  Le- 
gion of  Honour  across  his  breast  and  the  diamond  in  the 
aigrette  of  his  fez.  He  was  fanning  himself  impassively 
with  a  little  fan  of  gold-embroidered  strawwork.  Two 
aides-de-camp  and  an  engineer  of  the  railway  company 
were  standing  beside  him.  Opposite,  on  another  divan,  in 
a  respectful  attitude,  but  favoured  evidently,  as  they  were 
the  only  ones  seated  in  the  Bey's  presence,  were  two  owl- 
like men,  their  long  whiskers  falling  on  their  white  ties,  one 
fat  and  the  other  thin.  They  were  the  Hemerlingues,  father 
and  son,  who  had  won  over  his  Highness  and  were  bearing 
him  ofif  in  triumph  to  Paris.  What  a  horrible  dream !  All 
three  men,  who  knew  Jansoulet  well,  looked  at  him  cold- 
ly as  though  his  face  recalled  nothing.  Piteously  white, 
his  forehead  covered  with  sweat,  he  stammered,  "  But,  ypur 
Highness,  are  you  not  going  to — "  A  vivid  flash  of  light- 
ning, followed  by  a  terrible  peal  of  thunder,  stopped  the 
words.  But  the  lightning  in  the  eyes  of  his  sovereign 
seemed  to  him  as  terrible.  Sitting  up,  his  arm  outstretched, 
in  guttural  voice  as  of  one  accustomed  to  roll  the  hard 
Arab  syllables,  but  in  pure  French,  the  Bey  struck  him 
down  with  slow,  carefully  prepared  words :  "  Go  home, 
svvindler.  The  feet  go  where  the  heart  guides.  Mine  will 
never  enter  the  house  of  the  man  who  has  cheated  my 
country." 

Jansoulet  tried  to  say  something.  The  Bey  made  a  sign : 
"  Go  on."    The  engineer  pressed  a  button,  a  whistle  replied, 

190 


The   Festivities   in    Honour  of  the  Bey 

the  train,  which  had  never  really  stopped,  seemed  to  stretch 
itself,  making  all  its  iron  muscles  crack,  to  take  a  bound 
and  start  off  at  full  speed,  the  flags  fluttering  in  the  storm- 
wind,  and  the  black  smoke  meeting  the  lightning  flashes. 

Jansoulet,  left  standing  on  the  track,  staggering,  stunned, 
ruined,  watched  his  fortune  fly  away  and  disappear,  obliv- 
ious of  the  large  drops  of  rain  which  were  falling  on  his 
bare  head.  Then,  when  the  others  rushed  upon  him,  sur- 
rounded him,  rained  questions  upon  him,  he  stuttered  some 
disconnected  words  :  "  Court  intrigues  —  infamous  plot." 
And  suddenly,  shaking  his  fist  after  the  train,  with  eyes 
that  were  bloodshot,  and  a  foam  of  rage  upon  his  lips,  he 
roared  like  a  wild  beast,  "  Blackguards !  " 

"  You  forget  yourself,  Jansoulet,  you  forget  yourself." 
You  guess  who  it  was  that  uttered  those  words,  and,  taking 
the  Nabob's  arm,  tried  to  pull  him  together,  to  make  him 
hold  his  head  as  high  as  his  own,  conducted  him  to  the  car- 
riage through  the  rows  of  stupefied  people  in  uniform,  and 
made  him  get  in,  exhausted  and  broken,  like  a  near  relation 
of  the  deceased  that  one  hoists  into  a  mourning-coach  after 
the  funeral.  The  rain  began  to  fall,  peals  of  thunder  fol- 
lowed one  another.  Every  one  now  hurried  into  the  car- 
riages, which  quickly  took  the  homeward  road.  Then  there 
occurred  a  heart-rending  yet  comical  thing,  one  of  the  cruel 
farces  played  by  that  cowardly  destiny  which  kicks  its  vic- 
tims after  they  are  down.  In  the  falling  day  and  the  grow- 
ing darkness  of  the  cyclone,  the  crowd,  squeezed  round  the 
approaches  of  the  station,  thought  they  saw  his  Highness 
somewhere  amid  the  gorgeous  trappings,  and  as  soon  as 
the  wheels  started  an  immense  clamour,  a  frightful  bawling, 
which  had  been  hatching  for  an  hour  in  all  those  breasts, 
burst  out,  rose,  rolled,  rebounded  from  side  to  side  and  pro- 
longed itself  in  the  valley.  "  Hurrah,  hurrah  for  the  Bey !  " 
This  was  the  signal  for  the  first  bands  to- begin,  the  choral 
societies  started  in  their  turn,  and  the  noise  growing  step  by 
step,  the  road  from  Giffas  to  Saint-Romans  was  nothing  but 
an  uninterrupted  bellow.  Cardailhac  and  all  the  gentlemen, 
Jansoulet  himself,  leant  in  vain  out  of  the  windows  making 
desperate  signs,  "  That  will  do !    That's  enough !  "     Their 

191 


The  Nabob 

gestures  were  lost  in  the  tumult  and  the  darkness ;  what  the 
crowd  did  see  seemed  to  act  only  as  an  excitant.  And  I 
promise  you  there  was  no  need  of  that.  All  these  meridi- 
onals, whose  enthusiasm  had  been  carefully  fed  since  early 
morning-,  excited  the  more  by  the  long  wait  and  the  storm, 
shouted  with  all  the  force  of  their  voices  and  the  strength 
of  their  lungs,  mingling  with  the  song  of  Provence  the  cry 
of  "  Hurrah  for  the  Bey  !  "  till  it  seemed  a  perpetual  chorus. 
Most  of  them  had  no  idea  what  a  Bey  was,  did  not  even 
think  about  it.  They  accentuated  the  appellation  in  an 
extraordinary  manner  as  though  it  had  three  b's  and  ten  y's. 
But  it  made  no  difference,  they  excited  themselves  with 
the  cry,  holding  up  their  hands,  waving  their  hats,  becoming 
agitated  as  a  result  of  their  own  activity.  Women  wept  and 
rubbed  their  eyes.  Suddenly,  from  the  top  of  an  elm,  the 
shrill  voice  of  a  child  made  itself  heard:  "  Mamma,  mamma 
— I  see  him !  "  He  saw  him !  They  all  saw  him,  for  that 
matter !  Now  even,  they  will  all  swear  to  you  they  saw  him ! 
Confronted  by  such  a  delirium,  in  the  impossibility  of  im- 
posing silence  and  calm  on  such  a  crowd,  there  was  only  one 
thing  for  the  people  in  the  carriages  to  do :  to  leave  them 
alone,  pull  up  the  windows  and  dash  along  at  full  speed.  It 
would  at  least  shorten  a  bitter  martyrdom.  But  this  was  even 
worse.  Seeing  the  procession  hurrying,  all  the  road  began 
to  gallop  with  it.  To  the  dull  booming  of  their  tambour- 
ines the  dancers  from  Barbantane,  hand  in  hand,  sprang — 
a  living  garland — round  the  carriage  doors.  The  choral 
societies,  breathless  with  singing  as  they  ran,  but  singing 
all  the  same,  dragged  on  their  standard-bearers,  the  ban- 
ners now  hanging  over  their  shoulders ;  and  the  good,  fat 
priests,  red  and  panting,  shoving  their  vast  overworked 
bellies  before  them,  still  found  strength  to  shout  into  the  very 
ear  of  the  mules,  in  an  unctuous,  efifusive  voice,  "  Long  live 
our  noble  Bey !  "  The  rain  on  all  this,  the  rain  falling  in 
buckets,  discolouring  the  pink  coaches,  precipitating  the 
disorder,  giving  the  appearance  of  a  rout  to  this  triumphal 
return,  but  a  comic  rout,  mingled  with  songs  and  laughs, 
mad  embraces,  and  infernal  oaths.  It  was  something  like 
the  return  of  a  religious  procession  flying  before  a  storm, 

192 


The   Festivities   in   Honour  of  the  Bey 

cassocks  turned  up,  surplices  over  heads,  and  the  Blessed 
Sacrament  put  back  in  all  haste,  under  a  porch. 

The  dull  roll  of  the  wheels  over  the  wooden  bridge  told 
the  poor  Nabob,  motionless  and  silent  in  a  corner  of  his 
carriage,  that  they  were  almost  there.  "  At  last !  "  he  said, 
looking  through  the  clouded  windows  at  the  foaming 
Avaters  of  the  Rhone,  whose  tempestuous  rush  seemed  a 
calm  after  w^hat  he  had  just  suffered.  But  at  the  end  of 
the  bridge,  when  the  first  carriage  reached  the  great  tri- 
umphal arch,  rockets  went  off,  drums  beat,  saluting  the 
monarch  as  he  entered  the  estates  of  his  faithful  subject. 
To  crown  the  irony,  in  the  gathering  darkness  a  gigantic 
flare  of  gas  suddenly  illuminated  the  roof  of  the  castle,  and, 
in  spite  of  the  wind  and  the  rain,  these  fiery  letters  could 
still  be  seen  very  plainly,  "  Long  liv'  th'  B'Y  'HMED !  " 

"  That — that  is  the  wind-up,"  said  the  poor  Nabob,  who 
could  not  help  laughing,  though  it  was  a  very  piteous  and 
bitter  laugh.  But  no,  he  was  mistaken.  The  end  was  the 
bouquet  waiting  at  the  castle  door.  Amy  Ferat  came  to 
present  it,  leaving  the  group  of  country  maidens  under  the 
veranda,  where  they  were  trying  to  shelter  the  shining  silks 
gf  their  skirts  and  the  embroidered  velvets  of  their  caps  as 
they  waited  for  the  first  carriage.  Her  bunch  of  flowers 
in  her  hand,  modest,  her  eyes  downcast,  but  showing  a 
roguish  leg,  the  pretty  actress  sprang  forward  to  the  door 
in  a  low  courtesy,  almost  on  her  knees,  a  pose  she  had 
worked  at  for  a  week.  Instead  of  the  Bey,  Jansoulet  got 
out,  stiff  and  troubled,  and  passed  without  even  seeing 
her.  And  as  she  stayed  there,  bouquet  in  hand,  with  the 
silly  look  of  a  stage  fairy  w^ho  has  missed  her  cue,  Car- 
dailhac  said  to  her  with  the  ready  chaff  of  the  Parisian  who 
is  never  at  a  loss :  "  Take  away  your  flowers,  my  dear. 
The  Bey  is  not  coming.  He  had  forgotten  his  handker- 
chief, and  as  it  is  only  with  that  he  speaks  to  ladies,  you 
understand " 

Now  it  is  night.  Ever3'thing  is  asleep  at  Saint-Romans 
after  the  tremendous  uproar  of  the  day.  Torrents  of  rain 
continue  to  fall ;  and  in  the  park,  where  the  triumphal  arches 

193 


The  Nabob 

aad  the  Venetian  masts  still  lift  vaguely  their  soaking  car- 
casses, one  can  hear  streams  rushing  down  the  slopes  trans- 
formed into  waterfalls.  Everything  streams  or  drips.  A 
noise  of  water,  an  immense  noise  of  water.  Alone  in  his 
sumptuous  room,  with  its  lordly  bed  all  hung  with  purple 
silks,  the  Nabob  is  still  awake,  turning  over  his  own  black 
thoughts  as  he  strides  to  and  fro.  It  is  not  the  afifront,  that 
public  outrage  before  all  those  people,  that  occupies  him, 
it  is  not  even  the  gross  insult  the  Bey  had  flung  at  him  in 
the  presence  of  his  mortal  enemies.  No,  this  southerner, 
whose  sensations  were  all  physical  and  as  rapid  as  the  firing 
of  new  guns,  had  already  thrown  off  the  venom  of  his 
rancour.  And  then,  court  favourites,  by  famous  examples, 
are  always  prepared  for  these  sudden  falls.  What  terrifies 
him  is  that  which  he  guesses  to  lie  behind  this  afifront.  He 
reflects  that  all  his  possessions  are  over  there,  firms,  count- 
ing-houses, ships,  all  at  the  mercy  of  the  Bey,  in  that  law- 
less East,  that  country  of  the  ruler's  good-pleasure.  Press- 
ing liis  burning  brow  to  the  streaming  windows,  his  body  in 
a  cold  sweat,  his  hands  icy,  he  remains  looking  vaguely  out 
into  the  night,  as  dark,  as  obscure  as  his  own  future. 

Suddenly  a  noise  of  footsteps,  of  precipitate  knocks  at 
the  door. 

"Who  is  there?" 

"  Sir,"  said  Noel,  coming  in  half  dressed,  "  it  is  a  very 
urgent  telegram  that  has  been  sent  from  the  post-office  by 
special  messenger." 

"  A  telegram !    What  can  there  be  now  ?  " 

He  takes  the  envelope  and  opens  it  with  shaking  fin- 
gers. The  god,  struck  twice  already,  begins  to  feel  him- 
self vulnerable,  to  know  the  fears,  the  nervous  weakness 
of  other  men.  Quick — to  the  signature.  Mora  !  Is  it  pos- 
sible? The  duke — the  duke  to  him!  Yes,  it  is  indeed — 
M-o-R-A.  And  above  it :  "  Popolasca  is  dead.  Election 
coming  in  Corsica.     You  are  official  candidate." 

Deputy!  It  was  salvation.  With  that,  nothing  to  fear. 
No  one  dares  treat  a  representative  of  the  great  French 
nation  as  a  mere  swindler.  The  Hemerlingues  were  finely 
defeated. 

194 


The   Festivities  in  Honour  of  the  Bey 

"  Oh,  my  duke,  my  noble  duke !  " 

He  was  so  full  of  emotion  that  he  could  not  sign  his 
name.  Suddenly :  "  Where  is  the  man  who  brought  this 
telegram  ?  " 

"  Here,  M.  Jansoulet,"  replied  a  jolly  south-country 
voice  from  the  corridor. 

He  was  lucky,  that  postman. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  Nabob.  And  giving  him  the  receipt, 
he  took  in  a  heap  from  his  pockets — ever  full — as  many 
gold  pieces  as  his  hands  could  hold,  and  threw  them  into  the 
cap  of  the  poor  fellow,  who  stuttered,  distracted  and  dazzled 
by  the  fortune  showered  upon  him,  in  the  night  of  this  fairy 
palace. 


195  Vol.  18— J 


XII 

A  CORSICAN    ELECTION 

Pozzonegro — near  Sartlne. 
At  last  I  can  give  you  my  news,  dear  M.  Joyeuse, 
During  the  five  days  we  have  been  in  Corsica  we  have 
rushed  about  so  much,  made  so  many  speeches,  so  often 
changed  carriages  and  mounts — now  on  mules,  now  on 
asses,  or  even  on  the  backs  of  men  for  crossing  the  torrents 
— written  so  many  letters,  noted  so  many  requests,  visited 
so  many  schools,  presented  chasubles,  altar-cloths,  re- 
newed cracked  bells,  and  founded  kindergartens ;  we  have 
inaugurated  so  many  things,  proposed  so  many  toasts,  lis- 
tened to  so  many  harangues,  consumed  so  much  Talano  wine 
and  white  cheese,  that  I  have  not  found  time  to  send  even  a 
greeting  to  the  little  family  circle  round  the  big  table,  from 
which  I  have  been  missing  these  two  months.  Happily  my 
absence  will  not  be  for  much  longer,  as  we  expect  to  leave 
the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  are  coming  straight  back  to 
Paris.  From  the  electioneering  point  of  view,  I  think  our 
journey  has  been  a  success.  Corsica  is  an  admirable  coun- 
try, indolent  and  poor,  a  mixture  of  poverty  and  pride,  which 
makes  both  the  nobles  and  the  middle  classes  strive  to  keep 
up  an  appearance  of  easy  circumstances  at  the  price  of  the 
most  painful  privations.  They  speak  quite  seriously  of 
Popolasca's  fortune — that  needy  deputy  whom  death  robbed 
of  the  four  thousand  pounds  his  resignation  in  favour  of  the 
Nabob  would  have  brought  him.  All  these  people  have,  as 
well,  an  administrative  mania,  a  thirst  for  places  which  give 
them  any  sort  of  uniform,  and  a  cap  to  wear  with  the  words 
*'  Government  official  "  written  on  it.  If  you  gave  a  Corsi- 
can  peasant  the  choice  between  the  richest  farm  in  France 
and  the   shabbiest  sword-belt   of  a  village   policeman,  he 

196 


A   Corsican  Election 

would  not  hesitate  and  would  take  the  belt.  In  that  con- 
dition of  things,  you  may  imagine  what  chances  of  election 
a  candidate  has  who  can  dispose  of  a  personal  fortune  and 
the  Government  favours.  Thus,  M.  Jansoulet  will  be 
elected ;  and  especially  if  he  succeer's  in  his  present  un- 
dertaking, which  has  brought  us  here  to  the  only  inn  of 
a  little  place  called  Pozzonegro  (black  well).  It  is  a  regu- 
lar well,  black  with  foliage,  consisting  of  fifty  small  red- 
stone  houses  clustered  round  a  long  Italian  church,  at  the 
bottom  of  a  ravine  between  rigid  hills  and  coloured  sand- 
stone rocks,  over  which  stretch  immense  forests  of  larch 
and  juniper  trees.  From  my  open  window,  at  which  I  am 
writing,  I  see  up  above  there  a  bit  -^f  blue  sky,  the  orifice  of 
the  well ;  down  below  on  the  little  square — which  a  huge 
nut-tree  shades  as  though  the  shadows  were  not  already 
thick  enough — two  shepherds  clothed  in  sheep-skins  are 
playing  at  cards,  with  their  elbows  on  the  stone  of  a  foun- 
tain. Gambling  is  the  bane  of  this  land  of  idleness,  where 
they  get  men  from  Lucca  to  do  their  harvesting.  The  two 
poor  wretches  I  see  probably  haven't  a  farthing  between 
them,  but  one  bets  his  knife  against  a  cheese  wrapped  up 
in  vine  leaves,  and  the  stakes  lie  between  them  on  the 
bench.  A  little  priest  smokes  his  cigar  as  he  watches  them, 
and  seems  to  take  the  liveliest  interest  in  their  game. 

And  that  is  all.  Not  a  sound  anywhere  except  the 
drops  of  water  on  the  stone,  the  oaths  of  one  of  the  players 
who  swears  by  the  sango  del  seminaro,  and  from  underneath 
my  room  in  the  inn  parlour  the  eager  voice  of  our  friend 
mingling  with  the  splutterings  of  the  illustrious  Paganetti, 
who  is  interpreter,  in  his  conversation  with  the  not  less 
illustrious  Piedigriggio. 

M.  Piedigriggio  (gray  feet)  is  a  local  celebrity.  He  is  a 
tall,  old  man  of  seventy-five,  with  a  flowing  beard  and  a 
straight  back.  He  wears  a  little  pilot  coat,  a  brown  wool 
Catalonian  cap  on  his  white  locks.  At  his  belt  he  carries  a 
pair  of  scissors  to  cut  the  long  leaves  of  the  green  tobacco 
he  smokes  into  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  A  venerable-look- 
ing person  in  fact,  and  when  he  crossed  the  square,  shaking 
hands  with  the  priest,  smiling  protectingly  at  the  gam- 

197 


The  Nabob 

biers,  I  would  never  have  believed  that  I  was  looking  at 
the  famous  brigand  Piedigriggio,  who  held  the  woods  in 
Monte-Rotondo  from  1840  to  i860,  outwitted  the  police 
and  the  military,  and  who  to-day,  thanks  to  the  proscrip- 
tion by  which  he  benefits,  after  seven  or  eight  cold-blooded 
murders,  moves  peaceably  about  in  the  country  which  wit- 
nessed his  crimes,  and  enjoys  a  considerable  importance. 
This  is  why :  Piedigriggio  has  two  sons  who,  nobly  follow- 
ing in  his  footsteps,  have  taken  to  the  carbine  and  the  woods, 
in  their  turn  not  to  be  found,  not  to  be  caught,  as  their 
father  was,  for  twenty  years;  warned  by  the  shepherds  of 
the  movements  of  the  police,  when  the  latter  leave  a  vil- 
lage, they  make  their  appearance  in  it.  The  eldest,  Scipio, 
came  to  mass  last  Sunday  at  Pozzonegro.  To  say  they  love 
them,  and  that  the  bloody  hand-shake  of  those  wretches  is 
a  pleasure  to  all  who  harbour  them,  w^ould  be  to  calumniate 
the  peaceful  inhabitants  of  this  parish.  But  they  fear  them, 
and  their  will  is  law. 

Now,  these  Piedigriggios  have  taken  it  into  their  heads 
to  favour  our  opponent  in  the  election.  And  their  influence 
is  a  formidable  power,  for  they  can  make  two  whole  can- 
tons vote  against  us.  They  have  long  legs,  the  rascals,  as 
long  in  proportion  as  the  reach  of  their  guns.  Naturally, 
we  have  the  police  on  our  side,  but  the  brigands  are  far 
more  powerful.  As  our  innkeeper  said  this  morning :  "  The 
police,  they  go  away ;  ma  the  banditti  they  stay."  In  the 
face  of  this  logical  reasoning  we  understood  that  the  only 
thing  to  be  done  was  to  treat  with  the  Gray-feet,  to  try 
a  "  job,"  in  fact.  The  mayor  said  something  of  this  to 
the  old  man,  who  consulted  his  sons,  and  it  is  the  condi- 
tions of  this  treaty  they  are  discussing  downstairs.  I  hear 
the  voice  of  our  general  director,  "  Come,  my  dear  fellow, 
you  know  I  am  an  old  Corsican  myself,"  and  then  the 
other's  quiet  replies,  broken,  like  his  tobacco,  by  the  irrita- 
ting noise  of  his  scissors.  The  "  dear  fellow "  does  not 
seem  to  have  much  confidence,  and  until  the  coin  is 
ringing  upon  the  table  I  fancy  there  will  not  be  any  ad- 
vance. 

You  see,  Paganetti  is  known  in  his  native  country.     The 

198 


A  Corsican  Election 

worth  of  his  word  is  written  on  the  square  in  Corte,  still  wait- 
ing for  the  monument  to  Paoli,  on  the  vast  fields  of  carrots 
which  he  has  managed  to  plant  on  the  Island  of  Ithaca,  in  the 
gaping  empty  purses  of  all  those  unfortunate  small  trades- 
men, village  priests,  and  petty  nobility,  whose  poor  savings 
he  has  swallowed  up  dazzling  their  eyes  with  chimerical 
combina::ioni.  Truly,  for  him  to  dare  to  come  back  here,  it 
needed  all  his  phenomenal  audacity,  as  well  as  the  resources 
now  at  his  disposal  to  satisfy  all  claims. 

And,  indeed,  what  truth  is  there  in  the  fabulous  works 
undertaken  by  the  Territorial  Bank? 

None. 

Mines,  which  produce  nothing  and  never  will  produce 
anything,  for  they  exist  only  on  paper ;  quarries,  which  are 
still  innocent  of  pick  or  dynamite,  tracts  of  uncultivated 
sandy  land  that  they  survey  with  a  gesture,  telling  you, 
"  We  begin  here,  and  we  go  right  over  there,  as  far  as 
you  like."  It  is  the  same  with  the  forests.  The  whole  of 
a  wooded  hill  in  Monte-Rotondo  belongs  to  us,  it  seems, 
but  the  felling  of  the  trees  is  impossible  unless  aeronauts 
undertake  the  woodman's  work.  It  is  the  same  with  the 
watering-places,  among  which  this  miserable  hamlet  of  Poz- 
zonegro  is  one  of  the  most  important,  with  its  fountain 
whose  astonishing  ferruginous  properties  Paganetti  adver- 
tises. Of  the  steamers,  not  a  shadow.  Stay — an  old,  half- 
ruined  Genoese  tower  on  the  shore  of  the  Gulf  of  Ajaccio 
bears  on  a  tarnished  escutcheon,  above  its  hermetically 
sealed  doors,  this  inscription :  "  Paganetti's  Agency.  Mari- 
time Company.  Inquiry  Office."  Fat,  gray  lizards  tend 
the  office  in  company  with  an  owl.  As  for  the  railways, 
all  these  honest  Corsicans  to  whom  I  spoke  of  it  smiled 
knowingly,  replied  with  winks  and  mysterious  hints,  and  it 
was  only  this  morning  that  I  had  the  exceedingly  bufifoonish 
explanation  of  all  this  reticence. 

I  had  read  among  the  documents  which  the  director- 
general  flaunts  in  our  eyes  from  time  to  time,  like  a  fan  to 
puff  up  his  impostures,  the  bill  of  sale  of  a  marble  quarry  at 
a  place  said  to  be  "  Taverna,"  two  hours'  distance  from 
Pozzonegro.     Profiting  by  our  stay  here,  I  got  on  a  mule 

199 


The  Nabob 

this  morning,  without  telling  any  one,  and  guided  by  a 
tall  scamp  of  a  fettow  with  legs  like  a  deer — true  type 
of  a  Corsican  poacher  or  smuggler,  his  thick,  red  pipe  in 
his  mouth,  his  gun  in  a  bandoleer — I  went  to  Taverna. 
After  a  fearful  progress  across  cracked  rocks  and  bogs, 
past  abysses  of  unsoundable  depths — on  the  very  edges 
of  which  my  mule  maliciously  walked  as  though  to  mark 
them  out  with  her  shoes — we  arrived,  by  an  almost  per- 
pendicular descent,  at  the  end  of  our  journey.  It  was  a 
vast  desert  of  rocks,  absolutely  bare,  all  white  with  the 
droppings  of  gulls  and  sea-fowl,  for  the  sea  is  at  the  bot- 
tom, quite  near,  and  the  silence  of  the  place  was  broken 
only  by  the  flow  of  the  waves  and  the  shrill  cries  of  the 
wheeling  circles  of  birds.  My  guide,  who  has  a  holy  horror 
of  excisemen  and  the  police,  stayed  above  on  the  cliff,  be- 
cause of  a  little  coastguard  station  posted  like  a  watchman 
on  the  shore.  I  made  for  a  large  red  building  which  still 
maintained,  in  this  burning  solitude,  its  three  stories,  in 
spite  of  broken  windows  and  ruinous  tiles.  Over  the  worm- 
eaten  door  was  an  immense  sign-board :  "  Territorial  Bank. 

Carr bre 54."     The  wind,  the  sun,  the  rain,  have 

wiped  out  the  rest. 

There  has  been  there,  certainly,  a  commencement  of 
operations,  for  a  large  square,  gaping  hole,  cut  out  with 
a  punch,  is  still  open  in  the  ground,  showing  along  its 
crumbling  sides,  like  a  leopard's  spots,  red  slabs  with  brown 
veins,  and  at  the  bottom,  in  the  brambles,  enormous  blocks 
of  the  marble,  called  in  the  trade  "  black-heart "  (marble 
spotted  with  red  and  brown),  condemned  blocks  that  no  one 
could  make  anything  of  for  want  of  a  road  leading  to  the 
quarry  or  a  harbour  to  make  the  coast  accessible  for  freight 
ships,  and  for  want,  above  all,  of  subsidies  considerable 
enough  to  carry  out  one  or  the  other  of  these  two  projects. 
So  the  quarry  remains  abandoned,  at  a  few  cable-lengths 
from  the  shore,  as  cumbrous  and  useless  as  Robinson 
Crusoe's  canoe  in  the  same  unfortunate  circumstances. 
These  details  of  the  heart-rending  story  of  our  sole  terri- 
torial wealth  were  furnished  by  a  miserable  caretaker,  shak- 
ing with  fever,  whom  I  found  in  the  low-ceilinged  room 

200 


A  Corsican  Election 

of  the  yellow  house  trying  to  roast  a  piece  of  kid  over  the 
acrid  smoke  of  a  pistachio  bush. 

This  man,  who  in  himself  is  the  whole  staff  of  the  Ter- 
ritorial Bank  in  Corsica,  is  Paganetti's  foster-father,  an 
old  lighthouse-keeper  upon  whom  the  solitude  does  not 
weigh.  Our  director-general  leaves  him  there  partly  for 
charity  and  partly  because  letters  dated  from  the  Taverna 
quarry,  now  and  again,  make  a  good  show  at  the  share- 
holders' meetings.  I  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in  extract- 
ing a  little  information  from  this  poor  creature,  three  parts 
savage,  who  looked  upon  me  with  cautious  mistrust,  half 
hidden  behind  the  long  hair  of  his  goat-skin  pelone.  He 
told  me,  however,  without  intending  it,  what  the  Corsicans 
understand  by  the  word  "  railway,"  and  why  they  put  on 
mysterious  airs  when  they  speak  of  it.  As  I  was  trying  to 
find  out  if  he  knew  anything  about  the  scheme  for  a  railway 
in  the  country,  this  old  man,  instead  of  smiling  knowingly 
like  his  compatriots,  said,  quite  naturally,  in  passable  French, 
his  voice  rusty  and  benumbed  like  an  ancient,  little-used 
lock: 

"  Oh,  sir,  no  need  of  a  railway  here." 

"  But  it  would  be  most  valuable,  most  useful ;  it  would 
facilitate  communications." 

"  I  don't  say  no ;  but  with  the  police  we  have  enough 
here." 

"  The  policemen?  " 

"  Certainly." 

This  quid  pro  quo  went  on  for  some  five  minutes  be- 
fore I  discovered  that  here  the  secret  police  service  is  called 
"  the  railway."  As  there  are  many  Corsican  policemen  on 
the  Continent  they  use  this  euphemism  to  designate  the 
ignoble  calling  they  follow.  You  inquire  of  the  relations, 
"Where  is  your  brother  Ambrosini?  What  is  your  uncle 
Barbicaglia  doing?"  They  will  answer  with  a  little  wink, 
"  He  has  a  place  on  the  railway,"  and  every  one  knows 
what  that  means.  Among  the  people,  the  peasants,  who 
have  never  seen  a  railway  and  don't  know  what  it  is,  it 
is  quite  seriously  believed  that  the  great  occult  adminis- 
tration of  the   Imperial   police   has   no  other  name   than 

201 


The  Nabob 

that.  Our  principal  agent  in  the  country  shares  this 
touching  simplicity  of  belief.  It  shows  you  the  real  state 
of  the  ''  Line  from  Ajaccio  to  Bastia,  passing  by  Bonifacio, 
Porto  Vecchio,  etc.,"  as  it  is  written  on  the  big,  green- 
backed  books  of  the  house  of  Paganetti.  In  fact  all  the 
goods  of  the  Territorial  Bank  consist  of  a  few  sign-boards 
and  tw'O  ruins,  the  whole  not  worthy  of  lying  in  the  "old 
materials  "  yard  in  the  Rue  Saint-Ferdinand ;  every  night 
as  I  go  to  sleep  I  hear  the  old  vanes  grating  and  the  old 
doors  banging  on  emptiness. 

But,  in  this  case,  where  have  gone,  where  are  going  now, 
-he  enormous  sums  M.  Jansoulet  has  spent  during  the  last 
five  months — not  to  count  what  came  from  outside,  attracted 
by  the  magic  of  his  name?  I  thought,  as  you  did,  that  all 
those  soundings,  borings,  purchasings  of  land  that  the 
books  set  forth  in  fine  round-hand  were  exaggerated  be- 
yond measure.  But  who  could  suspect  such  effrontery? 
This  is  why  the  director  was  so  opposed  to  the  idea  of 
bringing  me  on  the  electioneering  trip,  I  don't  want  to 
have  an  explanation  now-.  My  poor  Nabob  has  quite 
enough  trouble  in  this  election.  Only,  whenever  we  get 
back,  I  shall  lay  before  him  all  the  details  of  my  long 
inquiry,  and,  whether  he  wants  it  or  not,  I  will  get  him  out 
of  this  den  of  thieves.  They  have  finished  below.  Old 
Piedigriggio  is  crossing  the  square,  pulling  up  the  slip-knot 
of  his  long  peasant's  purse,  which  looks  to  me  well  filled. 
The  bargain  is  made,  I  conclude.  Good-bye,  hurriedly, 
my  dear  M.  Joyeuse ;  remember  me  to  your  daughters  and 
ask  them  to  keep  a  tiny  little  place  for  me  round  the  work- 
table.  Paul  de  Gery. 

The  electioneering  whirlwind  w^hich  had  enveloped  them 
in  Corsica,  crossed  the  sea  behind  them  like  a  blast  of  the 
sirocco  and  filled  the  flat  in  the  Place  Vendome  with  a 
mad  wind  of  folly.  It  was  overrun  from  morning  to  night 
by  the  habitual  element,  augmented  now  by  a  constant  ar- 
rival of  little  dark  men,  brown  as  the  locust-bean,  with 
regular  features  and  thick  beards,  some  turbulent  and  talk- 
ative, like  Paganetti,  others  silent,  self-contained-and  dog- 

202 


A   Corsican  Election 

matic :  the  two  types  of  the  race  upon  which  the  same  cli- 
mate produces  different  effects.  All  these  famished  island- 
ers, in  the  depths  of  their  savage  country,  promised  each 
other  to  meet  at  the  Nabob's  table.  His  house  had  become 
an  inn,  a  restaurant,  a  market-place.  In  the  dining-room, 
where  the  table  was  kept  constantly  laid,  there  was  always 
to  be  found  some  newly  arrived  Corsican,  with  the  bewil- 
dered and  greedy  appearance  of  a  country  cousin,  having 
something  to  eat. 

The  boasting,  clamorous  race  of  election  agents  is  the 
same  everywhere ;  but  these  were  unusually  fiery,  had  a  zeal 
even  more  impassioned  and  the  vanity  of  turkey-cocks,  all 
worked  up  to  white  heat.  The  most  insignificant  recorder, 
inspector,  mayor's  secretary,  village  schoolmaster,  spoke  as 
if  he  had  the  whole  country  behind  him,  and  the  pockets 
of  his  threadbare  black  coat  full  of  votes.  And  it  is  a  fact, 
in  Corsican  parishes  (Jansoulet  had  seen  it  for  himself) 
families  are  so  old,  have  sprung  from  so  little,  have  so 
many  ramifications,  that  any  poor  fellow  breaking  stones 
on  the  road  is  able  to  claim  relationship  with  the  greatest 
personages  of  the  island,  and  is  thereby  able  to  exert  a 
serious  influence.  These  complications  are  aggravated  still 
more  by  the  national  temperament,  which  is  proud,  secre- 
tive, scheming,  and  vindictive;  so  it  follows  that  one  has 
to  be  careful  how  one  walks  amid  the  network  of  threads 
stretching  from  one  extremity  of  the  people  to  the  other. 

The  worst  was  that  all  these  people  were  jealous  of  each 
other,  detested  each  other,  and  quarrelled  across  the  table 
about  the  election,  exchanging  black  looks  and  grasping  the 
handles  of  their  knives  at  the  least  contradiction.  They 
spoke  very  loud  and  all  at  once,  some  in  the  hard,  sonorous 
Genoese  dialect,  and  others  in  the  most  comical  French,  all 
choking  with  suppressed  oaths.  They  threw  in  each  others 
teeth  names  of  unknown  villages,  dates  of  local  scandals, 
which  suddenly  revived  between  two  fellow  guests  two 
centuries  of  family  hatreds.  The  Nabob  was  afraid  of 
seeing  his  luncheons  end  tragically,  and  strove  to  calm  all 
this  violence  and  conciliate  them  with  his  large  good- 
natured  smile.    But  Paganetti  reassured  him.    According  to 

203 


The  Nabob 

him,  the  vendetta,  though  still  existing  in  Corsica,  no 
longer  employs  the  stiletto  or  the  rifle  except  very  rarely, 
and  among  the  lowest  classes.  The  anonymous  letter  has 
taken  their  place.  Indeed,  every  day  unsigned  letters  were 
received  at  the  Place  Vendome  written  in  this  style : 

"  M.  Jansoulet,  you  are  so  generous  that  I  cannot  do 
less  than  point  out  to  you  that  the  Sieur  Bornalinco 
(Ange-Marie)  is  a  traitor,  bought  by  your  enemies.  I  could 
say  very  differently  about  his  cousin  Bornalinco  (Louis- 
Thomas),  who  is  devoted  to  the  good  cause,  etc." 

Or  again : 

"  M.  Jansoulet,  I  fear  your  chances  of  election  will 
come  to  nothing,  and  are  on  a  poor  foundation  for  success 
if  you  continue  to  employ  one  named  Castirla  (Josue),  of 
the  parish  of  Omessa.  His  relative,  Luciani,  is  the  man 
you  need." 

Although  he  no  longer  read  any  of  these  missives,  the 
poor  candidate  suffered  from  the  disturbing  effect  of  all 
these  doubts  and  of  all  these  unchained  passions.  Caught 
in  the  gearing  of  those  small  intrigues,  full  of  fears,  mis- 
trustful, curious,  feverish,  he  felt  in  every  aching  nerve  the 
truth  of  the  Corsican  proverb,  "  The  greatest  ill  you  can 
wish  your  enemy  is  an  election  in  his  house." 

It  may  be  imagined  that  the  check-book  and  the  three 
deep  drawers  in  the  mahogany  cabinet  were  not  spared  by 
this  horde  of  devouring  locusts  which  had  fallen  upon 
"  Moussiou  Jansoulet's  "  dwelling.  Nothing  could  be  more 
comic  than  the  haughty  manner  in  which  these  good  island- 
ers effected  their  loans,  briskly,  and  with  an  air  of  defi- 
ance. At  the  same  time  it  was  not  they  who  were  the  worst 
— except  for  the  boxes  of  cigars  which  sank  into  their  pock- 
ets as  though  they  all  meant  to  open  a  "  Civette  "  on  their 
return  to  their  own  country.  For  just  as  the  very  hot 
w^eather  inflames  and  envenoms  old  sores,  so  the  election 
had  given  an  astonishing  new  growth  to  the  pillaging  already 
established  in  the  house.  Money  was  demanded  for  adver- 
tising expenses,  for  Moessard's  articles,  which  were  sent  to 
Corsica  in  bales  of  thousands  of  copies,  with  portraits,  biog- 
raphies, pamphlets — all  the  printed  clamour  that  it  w^as  pos- 

204 


A  Corsican  Election 

sible  to  raise  round  a  name.  And  always  the  usual  work  of 
the  suction-pumps  went  on,  those  pumps  now  fixed  to  this 
great  reservoir  of  millions.  Here,  the  Bethlehem  Society, 
a  powerful  machine  working  with  regular,  slow-recurring 
strokes,  full  of  impetus ;  the  Territorial  Bank,  a  marvellous 
exhauster,  indefatigable,  with  triple  and  quadruple  rows 
of  pumps,  several  thousand  horse-power,  the  Schwalbach 
pump,  the  Bois  I'Hery  pump,  and  how  many  others  as 
well?  Some  enormous  and  noisy  with  screaming  pistons, 
some  quite  dumb  and  discreet  with  clack-valves  knowingly 
oiled,  pumps  with  tiny  valves,  dear  little  pumps  as  fine 
as  the  stings  of  insects,  and  like  them  leaving  a  poison  in 
the  place  whence  they  have  drawn  life  ;  all  working  together 
and  bound  to  bring  about  if  not  a  complete  drought,  at  least 
a  serious  lowering  of  level. 

Already  evil  rumours,  vague  as  yet,  were  going  the 
round  of  the  Bourse.  Was  this  a  move  of  the  enemy? 
For  Jansoulet  was  waging  a  furious  money  war  against 
Hemerlingue,  trying  to  thwart  all  his  financial  operations, 
and  was  losing  considerable  sums  at  the  game.  He  had 
against  him  his  own  fury,  his  adversary's  coolness,  and  the 
blunderings  of  Paganetti,  who  was  his  man  of  straw.  In 
any  case  his  golden  star  was  no  longer  in  the  ascendant. 
Paul  de  Gery  knew  this  through  Joyeuse,  who  was  now  a 
stock-broker's  accountant  and  well  up  in  the  doings  on  the 
Bourse.  What  troubled  him  most,  however,  was  the  Na- 
bob's singular  agitation,  his  need  of  constant  distraction 
which  had  succeeded  his  former  splendid  calm  of  strength 
and  security,  the  loss,  too,  of  his  southern  sobriety.  He 
kept  himself  in  a  continual  state  of  excitement,  drinking 
great  glasses  of  rati  before  his  meals,  laughing  long,  talk- 
ing loud,  like  a  rough  sailor  ashore.  You  felt  that  here 
was  a  man  overdoing  himself  to  escape  from  some  heavy 
care.  It  showed,  however,  in  the  sudden  contraction  of  all 
the  muscles  of  his  face,  as  some  unhappy  thought  crossed 
his  mind,  or  when  he  feverishly  turned  the  pages  of  his 
little  gilt-edged  note-book.  The  serious  interview  that 
Paul  wanted  so  much  Jansoulet  would  not  give  him  at  any 
price.    He  spent  his  nights  at  the  club,  his  mornings  in  bed, 

20=; 


The  Nabob 

and  from  the  moment  he  awoke  his  room  was  full  of  peo- 
ple who  talked  to  him  as  he  dressed,  and  to  whom  he  re- 
plied, sponge  in  hand.  If,  by  a  miracle,  de  Gery  caught 
him  alone  for  a  second,  he  fled,  stopping  his  words  with  a 
"  Not  now,  not  now,  I  beg  of  you."  In  the  end  the  young 
man  had  recourse  to  drastic  measures. 

One  morning,  towards  five  o'clock,  when  Jansoulet 
came  home  from  his  club,  he  found  a  letter  on  the  table 
near  his  bed.  At  first  he  took  it  to  be  one  of  the  many 
anonymous  denunciations  he  received  daily.  It  was  indeed 
a  denunciation,  but  it  was  signed  and  undisguised ;  and  it 
breathed  in  every  word  the  loyalty  and  the  earnest  youth- 
•  ulness  of  him  who  wrote  it.  De  Gery  pointed  out  very 
clearly  all  the  infamies  and  all  the  double  dealing  which 
surrounded  him.  With  no  beating  about  the  bush  he  called 
Lhe  rogues  by  their  names.  There  was  not  one  of  the 
usual  guests  whom  he  did  not  suspect,  not  one  who  came 
with  any  other  object  than  to  steal  and  to  lie.  From  the 
top  to  the  bottom  of  the  house  all  was  pillage  and  waste. 
Bois  I'Hery's  horses  were  unsound,  Schwalbach's  gallery 
was  a  swindle,  Moessard's  articles  a  recognised  blackmail. 
De  Gery  had  made  a  long  detailed  memorandum  of  these 
scandalous  abuses,  with  proofs  in  support  of  it.  But  he  spe- 
cially recommended  to  Jansoulet's  attention  the  accounts 
of  the  Territorial  Bank  as  the  real  danger  of  the  situation. 
Attracted  by  the  Nabob's  name,  as  chairman  of  the  com- 
pany, hundreds  of  shareholders  had  fallen  into  the  infa- 
mous trap — poor  seekers  of  gold,  following  the  lucky  miner. 
In  the  other  matters  it  was  only  money  he  lost ;  here  his 
honour  was  at  stake.  He  would  discover  what  a  terrible 
responsibility  lay  upon  him  if  he  examined  the  papers  of 
the  business,  which  was  only  deception  and  cheatery  from 
one  end  to  the  other. 

"  You  will  find  the  memorandum  of  which  I  speak," 
said  Paul  de  Gery,  at  the  end  of  his  letter,  "  in  the  top 
drawer  of  my  desk  along  with  sundry  receipts.  I  have  not 
put  them  in  your  room,  because  I  mistrust  Noel  like  the 
rest.  When  I  go  away  to-night  I  will  give  you  the  key. 
For  I  am  going  away,  my  dear  benefactor  and  friend,  I  am 

206 


A   Corsican   Election 

going  away  full  of  gratitude  for  the  good  you  have  done 
me,  and  heartbroken  that  your  blind  confidence  has  pre- 
vented me  from  repaying  you  even  in  part.  As  things  are 
now,  my  conscience  as  an  Lunest  man  will  not  let  me  stay 
any  longer  useless  at  my  post.  I  am  looking  on  at  a  dis- 
aster, at  the  sack  of  a  palace,  which  I  can  do  nothing  to 
prevent.  My  heart  burns  at  all  I  see.  I  give  handshakes 
which  shame  me.  I  am  your  friend,  and  I  seem  their  ac- 
complice. And  who  knows  that  if  I  went  on  living  in  such 
an  atmosphere  I  might  not  become  one?" 

This  letter,  which  he  read  slowly  and  carefully,  even 
between  the  lines  and  through  the  words,  made  so  great  an 
impression  on  the  Nabob  that,  instead  of  going  to  bed,  he 
went  at  once  to  find  his  young  secretary.  De  Gery  had  a 
study  at  the  end  of  the  row  of  public  rooms  where  he  slept 
on  a  sofa.  It  had  been  a  provisional  arrangement,  but  he 
had  preferred  not  to  change  it. 

The  house  was  still  asleep.  As  he  was  crossing  the 
lofty  rooms,  filled  with  the  vague  light  of  a  Parisian  dawn 
(those  blinds  were  never  lowered,  as  no  evening  receptions 
were  held  there),  the  Nabob  stopped,  struck  by  the  look 
of  sad  defilement  his  luxury  wore.  In  the  heavy  odour 
of  tobacco  and  various  liqueurs  which  hung  over  every- 
thing, the  furniture,  the  ceilings,  the  woodwork  could  be 
seen,  already  faded  and  still  new.  Spots  on  the  crumpled 
satins,  ashes  staining  the  beautiful  marbles,  dirty  footmarks 
on  the  carpets.  It  reminded  one  of  a  huge  first-class  rail- 
way carriage  incrusted  with  all  the  laziness,  the  impatience, 
the  boredom  of  a  long  journey,  and  all  the  wasteful,  spoil- 
ing disdain  of  the  public  for  a  luxury  for  which  it  has  paid. 
In  the  middle  of  this  set  scene,  still  warm  from  the  atro- 
cious comedy  played  there  every  day,  his  own  image,  re- 
flected in  twenty  cold  and  staring  looking-glasses,  stood  out 
before  him,  forbiddin.sr  yet  comical,  in  absolute  contrast  to 
his  elegant  clothes,  his  eyes  swollen,  his  face  bloated  and 
inflamed. 

V\  hat  an  obvious  and  disenchanting  to-morrow  to  the 
iTiad  life  he  was  leading! 

He  lost  himself  for  a  moment  in  dreary  thought ;  then  he 

207 


The  Nabob 

gave  his  shoulders  a  vigorous  shake,  a  movement  frequent 
with  him — it  was  Hke  a  peddler  shifting  his  pack — as  though 
to  rid  himself  of  too  cruel  cares,  and  again  took  up  the  bur- 
den every  man  carries  with  him,  which  bows  his  back,  more 
or  less,  according  to  his  courage  or  his  strength,  and  went 
into  de  Gary's  room,  who  was  already  up,  standing  at  his 
desk  sorting  papers. 

"  First  of  all,  my  friend,"  said  Jansoulet,  softly  shutting 
the  door  for  their  interview,  "  answer  me  this  frankly.  Is 
it  really  for  the  motives  given  in  your  letter  that  you  have 
resolved  to  leave  me?  Is  there  not,  beneath  it  all,  one  of 
those  scandals  that  I  know  are  being  circulated  in  Paris 
against  me?  I  am  sure  you  would  be  loyal  enough  to 
warn  me  and  to  give  me  the  opportunity  of — of  clearing 
myself  to  you." 

Paul  assured  him  that  he  had  no  other  reasons  for  go- 
ing, but  that  those  were  surely  sufficient,  since  it  was  a 
matter  of  conscience. 

"  Then,  my  boy,  listen  to  me,  and  I  am  sure  of  keep- 
ing you.  Your  letter,  so  eloquent  of  honesty  and  sincerity, 
has  told  me  nothing  that  I  have  not  been  convinced  of  for 
three  months.  Yes,  my  dear  Paul,  you  were  right.  Paris 
is  more  complicated  than  I  thought.  What  I  needed,  when 
I  arrived,  was  an  honest  and  disinterested  cicerone  to  put 
me  on  my  guard  against  people  and  things.  I  met  only 
swindlers.  Every  worthless  rascal  in  the  town  has  left  the 
mud  of  his  boots  on  my  carpets,  I  was  looking  at  them 
just  now — my  poor  drawing-rooms.  They  need  a  fine 
sweeping  out.  And  I  swear  to  you  they  shall  have  it,  by 
God,  and  with  no  light  hand !  But  I  must  wait  for  that 
until  I  am  a  deputy.  All  these  scoundrels  are  of  use  to 
me  for  the  election,  and  this  election  is  far  too  necessary 
now  for  me  to  risk  losing  the  smallest  chance.  In  a  word, 
this  is  the  situation :  Not  only  does  the  Bey  mean  to  keep 
the  money  I  lent  him  three  months  ago,  but  he  has  replied 
to  my  summons  by  a  counter  action  for  eighty  millions,  the 
sum  out  of  which  he  says  I  cheated  his  brother.  It  is  a  fright- 
ful theft,  an  audacious  libel.  My  fortune  is  mine,  my  own. 
I  made  it  by  my  trade  as  a  merchant.    I  had  Ahmed's  fa- 

208 


A  Corsican  Election 

vour;  he  gave  me  the  opportunity  of  becoming  rich.  It 
is  possible  I  may  have  put  on  the  screw  a  Httle  tightly 
sometimes.  But  one  must  not  judge  these  things  from  a 
European  standpoint.  Over  there,  the  enormous  profits 
the  Levantines  make  is  an  accepted  fact — a  known  thing. 
It  is  the  ransom  those  savages  pay  for  the  western  com- 
fort we  bring  them.  That  wretch  Hemerlingue,  who  is 
suggesting  all  this  persecution  against  me,  has  done  just  as 
much.  But  what  is  the  use  of  talking?  I  am  in  the  lion's 
jaws.  While  waiting  for  me  to  go  to  defend  myself  at  his 
tribunals — and  how-  I  know  it,  the  justice  of  the  Orient ! — ■ 
the  Bey  has  begun  by  putting  an  embargo  on  all  my  goods, 
ships,  and  palaces,  and  what  they  contain.  The  affair  was 
conducted  quite  regularly  by  a  decree  of  the  Supreme 
Court.  Young  Hemerlingue  had  a  hand  in  that,  you  can 
see.  If  I  am  made  a  deputy,  it  is  only  a  joke.  The  court 
takes  back  its  decree  and  they  give  me  back  my  treasure 
with  every  sort  of  excuse.  If  I  am  not  elected  I  lose  every- 
thing, sixty,  eighty  millions,  even  the  possibility  of  mak- 
ing another  fortune.  It  is  ruin,  disgrace,  dishonour.  Are 
\  ou  going  to  abandon  me  in  such  a  crisis  ?  Think — I  have 
only  you  in  the  whole  world.  My  wife — you  have  seen 
her,  you  know  what  help,  what  support  she  is  to  her  hus- 
band. My  children — I  might  as  well  not  have  any.  I 
never  see  them ;  they  would  scarcely  know  me  in  the  street. 
My  horrible  wealth  has  killed  all  affection  around  me  and 
has  enveloped  me  with  shameless  self-seeking.  I  have  only 
my  mother  to  love  me,  and  she  is  far  away,  and  you  w-ho 
came  to  me  from  my  mother.  No,  you  will  not  leave 
me  alone  amid  all  the  scandals  that  are  creeping  around 
me.  It  is  awful — if  you  only  knew !  At  the  club,  at  the 
play,  wherever  I  go  I  seem  to  see  the  little  viper's  head  of 
the  Baroness  Hemerlingue,  I  hear  the  echo  of  her  hiss, 
I  feel  the  venom  of  her  bite.  Everywhere  mocking  looks, 
conversation  stopped  when  I  appear,  lying  smiles,  or  kind- 
ness mixed  with  a  little  pity.  And  then  the  deserters,  and 
the  people  who  keep  out  of  the  way  as  at  the  approach  of  a 
misfortune.  Look  at  Felicia  Ruys :  just  as  she  had  finished 
my  bust  she  pretends  that  some  accident,  I  know  not  what, 

209 


The  Nabob 

has  happened  to  it,  in  order  to  avoid  having  to  send  it  to 
the  Salon.  I  said  nothing,  I  affected  to  beHeve  her.  But  I 
understood  that  there  again  was  some  new  evil  report.  And 
it  is  such  a  disappointment  to  me.  In  a  crisis  as  grave  as  this 
everything  has  its  importance.  My  bust  in  the  exhibition, 
signed  by  that  famous  name,  would  have  helped  me  greatly 
in  Paris.  But  no — everything  falls  away,  every  one  fails 
me.  You  see  now  that  I  cannot  do  without  you.  You  must 
not  desert  me." 


210 


XIII 

A  DAY   OF   SPLEEN 

Five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Rain  since  morning  and 
a  gray  sky  low  enough  to  be  reached  with  an  umbrella ;  the 
close  weather  which  sticks.  Mess,  mud,  nothing  but  mud, 
in  heavy  puddles,  in  shining  trails  in  the  gutters,  vainly 
chased  by  the  street-scrapers  and  the  scavengers,  heaved 
into  enormous  carts  which  carry  it  slowly  towards  Mon- 
treuil — promenading  it  in  triumph  through  the  streets,  al- 
ways moving,  and  always  springing  up  again,  growing 
through  the  pavements,  splashing  the  panels  of  the  car- 
riages, the  breasts  of  the  horses,  the  clothes  of  the  passers- 
by,  spattering  the  windows,  the  door-steps,  the  shop-fronts, 
till  one  feared  that  the  whole  of  Paris  would  sink  and  dis- 
appear under  this  sorrowful,  miry  soil  where  everything 
dissolves  and  is  lost  in  mud.  And  it  moves  one  to  pity  to  see 
the  invasion  of  this  dirt  on  the  whiteness  of  the  new  houses, 
on  the  parapets  of  the  quays,  and  on  the  colonnades  of  the 
stone  balconies.  There  is  some  one,  however,  who  rejoices 
at  the  sight — a  poor,  sick,  weary  being,  lying  all  her  length 
on  a  silk-embroidered  divan,  her  chin  on  her  clinched  fists. 
She  is  looking  out  gladly  through  the  dripping  windows 
and  delighting  in  all  the  ugliness. 

"  Look,  my  fairy !  this  is  indeed  the  weather  I  wanted 
to-day.  See  them  draggling  along!  Aren't  they  hideous? 
Aren't  they  dirty?  What  mire!  It  is  everywhere — in  the 
streets,  on  the  quays,  right  down  to  the  Seine,  right  up  to 
the  heavens.  I  tell  you,  mud  is  good  when  one  is  sad.  I 
would  like  to  play  in  it,  to  make  sculpture  with  it — a  statue 
a  hundred  feet  high,  that  should  be  called  '  My  weariness.' " 

"  But  why  are  you  so  miserable,  dearest?"  said  the  old 
dancer  gently,  amiable  and  pink,  and  sitting  straight  in  her 

211 


The  Nabob 

seat  for  fear  of  disarranging  her  hair,  which  was  even  more 
carefully  dressed  than  usual.  "  Haven't  you  everything  to 
make  you  happy  ?  "  And  for  the  hundredth  time  she  enu- 
merated in  her  tranquil  voice  the  reasons  for  her  happiness : 
her  glory,  her  genius,  her  beauty,  all  the  men  at  her  feet,  the 
handsomest,  the  greatest — oh !  yes,  the  very  greatest,  as 
this  very  day —  But  a  terrible  howl,  like  the  heart-rending 
cry  of  the  jackal  exasperated  by  the  monotony  of  his  desert, 
suddenly  made  all  the  studio  windows  shake,  and  frightened 
the  old  and  startled  little  chrysalis  back  into  her  cocoon. 

A  week  ago,  Felicia's  group  was  finished  and  sent  to 
the  exhibition,  leaving  her  in  a  state  of  nervous  prostration, 
moral  sickness,  and  distressful  exasperation.  It  needs  all 
the  tireless  patience  of  the  fairy,  all  the  magic  of  her  mem- 
ories constantly  evoked,  to  make  life  supportable  beside  this 
restlessness,  this  wicked  anger,  which  growls  beneath  the 
girl's  long  silences  and  suddenly  bursts  out  in  a  bitter  word 
or  in  an  "  Ugh  1  "  of  disgust  at  everything.  Her  group  is 
hideous ;  no  one  will  notice  it.  All  the  critics  are  asses.  The 
public  ?  An  immense  goitre  with  three  rows  of  chains.  And 
yet,  the  other  Sunday,  when  the  Due  de  Mora  came  with  the 
superintendent  of  the  art  section  to  see  her  exhibits  in  the 
studio,  she  was  so  happy,  so  proud  of  the  praise  they  gave 
her,  so  fully  delighted  with  her  own  work,  which  she  ad- 
mired from  the  outside,  as  though  the  work  of  some  one  else, 
now  that  her  tools  no  longer  created  between  her  and  her 
work  that  bond  which  makes  impartial  judgment  so  hard 
for  the  artist. 

But  it  is  like  this  every  year.  The  studio  stripped 
of  her  recent  work,  her  glorious  name  once  again  thrown 
to  the  unexpected  caprice  of  the  public,  Felicia's  thoughts, 
now  without  a  visible  object,  stray  in  the  emptiness  of  her 
heart  and  in  the  hollowness  of  her  life — that  of  the  woman 
who  leaves  the  quiet  groove — until  she  be  engrossed  in  some 
new  work.  She  shuts  herself  up  and  will  see  no  one,  as 
though  she  mistrusted  herself.  Jenkins  is  the  only  person 
who  can  help  her  during  these  attacks.  He  seems  even  to 
court  them,  as  though  he  expected  something  therefrom. 
She  is  not  pleasant  with  him,  all  the  same,  goodness  knows. 

212 


A  Day  of  Spleen 


Yesterday,  even,  he  stayed  for  hours  beside  this  wearied 
beauty  without  her  speaking  to  him  once.  If  that  be  the  wel- 
come she  is  keeping  for  the  great  personage  who  is  doinc;" 
them  the  honour  of  dining  with  them —  Here  the  good 
Crenmitz,  who  is  quietly  turning  over  all  these  thoughts  as 
she  gazes  at  the  bows  on  the  pointed  toes  of  her  slippers, 
remembers  that  she  has  promised  to  make  a  dish  of  Vien- 
nese cakes  for  the  dinner  of  the  personage  in  question,  and 
goes  out  of  the  studio,  silently,  on  the  tips  of  her  little  feet. 

The  rain  falls,  the  mud  deepens ;  the  beautiful  sphinx 
lies  still,  her  eyes  lost  in  the  dull  horizon.  What  is  she 
thinking  of?  What  does  she  see  coming  there,  over  those 
filthy  roads,  in  the  falling  night,  that  her  lip  should  take  that 
curve  of  disgust  and  her  brow  that  frown?  Is  she  waiting 
for  her  fate?  A  sad  fate,  that  sets  forth  in  such  weather, 
fearless  of  the  darkness  and  the  dirt. 

Some  one  comes  into  the  studio  with  a  heavier  tread 
than  the  mouse-like  step  of  Constance — the  little  servant, 
doubtless ;  and,  without  looking  round,  Felicia  says  roughly, 
"  Go  away !    I  don't  want  any  one  in." 

"  I  should  have  liked  to  speak  to  you  very  much,  all  the 
same,"  says  a  friendly  voice. 

She  starts,  sits  up.  Mollified,  and  almost  smiling  at 
this  unexpected  visitor,  she  says : 

"What — you,  young  Minerva!    How  did  you  get  in?" 

"  Very  easily.     All  the  doors  are  open." 

"  I  am  not  surprised.  Constance  is  crazy,  since  this 
morning,  over  her  dinner." 

"  Yes,  I  saw.  The  anteroom  is  full  of  flowers.  Who  is 
coming?  " 

"  Oh !  a  stupid  dinner — an  official  dinner.  I  don't  know 
how  I  could —  Sit  down  here,  near  me.  I  am  so  glad  to 
see  you." 

Paul  sat  down,  a  little  disturbed.  She  had  never  seemed 
to  him  so  beautiful.  In  the  dusk  of  the  studio,  amid  the 
shadowy  brilliance  of  the  works  of  art,  bronzes,  and  tapes- 
tries, her  pallor  was  like  a  soft  light,  her  eyes  shone  like 
precious  stones,  and  her  long,  close-fitting  gown  revealed 
the  unrestraint  of  her  goddess-like  body.    Then,  she  spoke 

213 


The  Nabob 

so  affectionately,  she  seemed  so  happy  because  he  had  come. 
Why  had  he  stayed  away  so  long?  It  was  almost  a  month 
since  they  had  seen  him.  Were  they  no  longer  friends? 
He  excused  himself  as  best  he  could — business,  a  journey. 
Besides,  if  he  hadn't  been  there,  he  had  often  spoken  of 
her — oh,  very  often,  almost  every  day. 

"  Really  ?    And  with  whom?  " 

"  With " 

He  was  going  to  say  "  With  Aline  Joyeuse,"  but  a  feel- 
ing of  restraint  stopped  him,  an  undefinable  sentiment,  a 
sense  of  shame  at  pronouncing  her  name  in  the  studio  which 
had  heard  so  many  others.  There  are  things  that  do  not 
go  together,  one  scarcely  knows  why.  Paul  preferred  to 
reply  with  a  falsehood,  which  brought  him  at  once  to  the 
object  of  his  visit. 

"  With  an  excellent  fellow  to  whom  you  have  given 
very  unnecessary  pain.  Come,  why  have  you  not  finished 
the  poor  Nabob's  bust?  It  was  a  great  joy  to  him,  such 
a  very  proud  thing  for  him,  to  have  that  bust  in  the  exhibi- 
tion.    He  counted  upon  it." 

At  the  Nabob's  name  she  was  slightly  troubled. 

"  It  is  true,"  she  said,  "  1  broke  my  word.  But  what  do 
you  expect?  I  am  made  of  caprice.  But  I  really  want  to 
take  it  up  again  one  of  these  days.  See,  the  cover  is  over 
it ;  all  wet,  so  that  the  clay  does  not  harden." 

"  And  the  accident?    You  know,  we  didn't  believe  in  it." 

"  Then  you  were  wrong.  I  never  lie.  It  had  a  fall,  a 
most  awful  upset ;  only  the  clay  was  fresh,  and  I  easily 
repaired  it.    Look !  " 

With  a  sweeping  gesture  she  lifted  the  cover.  The 
Nabob  suddenly  appeared  before  them,  his  jolly  face  beam- 
ing with  the  pleasure  of  being  portrayed  ;  so  like,  so  tremen- 
dously himself,  that  Paul  gave  a  cry  of  admiration. 

"  Isn't  it  good  ?  "  she  said  artlessly.  "  Still  a  few  touches 
here  and  there — "  She  had  taken  the  chisel  and  the  little 
sponge  and  pushed  the  stand  into  what  remained  of  the  day- 
light. "  It  could  be  done  in  a  few  hours.  But  it  couldn't 
go  to  the  exhibition.  To-day  is  the  226.;  all  the  exhibits 
have  been  in  a  long  time." 

214 


A  Day  of  Spleen 


Bah !    With  influence- 


She  frowned,  and  her  bad  expression  came  back,  her 
mouth  turning  down. 

"  That's  true.  The  protegee  of  the  Due  de  Mora.  Oh ! 
you  have  no  need  to  apologize.  I  know  what  people  say, 
and  I  don't  care  that — "  and  she  threw  a  little  ball  of  clay 
at  the  wall,  where  it  stuck,  flat.  "  Perhaps  men,  by  dint  of 
supposing  the  thing  which  is  not —  But  let  us  leave  these 
infamies  alone,''  she  said,  holding  up  her  aristocratic  little 
head.  "  I  really  want  to  please  you,  Minerva.  Your  friend 
shall  go  to  the  Salon  this  year." 

Just  then  a  smell  of  caramel  and  warm  pastry  filled  the 
studio,  w^here  the  shadows  were  falling  like  a  fine  gray  dust, 
and  the  fairy  appeared,  a  dish  of  sweetmeats  in  her  hand. 
She  looked  morfe  fairy-like  than  ever,  bedecked  and  re- 
juvenated ;  dressed  in  a  white  gown  which  showed  her  beau- 
tiful arms  through  sleeves  of  old  lace ;  they  were  beautiful 
still,  for  the  arm  is  the  beauty  that  fades  last. 

"  Look  at  my  kuchen,  dearie ;  they  are  such  a  success 
this  time.  Oh !  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  did  not  see  you  had 
friends.  And  it  is  M.  Paul!  How  are  you,  M.  Paul? 
Taste  one  of  my  cakes." 

And  the  charming  old  lady,  whose  dress  seemed  to  lend 
her  an  extraordinary  vivacity,  came  towards  him,  balancing 
the  plate  on  the  tips  of  her  tiny  fingers. 

"  Don't  bother  him.  You  can  give  him  some  at  dinner," 
said  Felicia  quietly. 

"At  dinner?" 

The  dancer  was  so  astonished  that  she  almost  upset  her 
pretty  pastries,  which  looked  as  light  and  airy  and  delicious 
as  herself. 

"  Yes,  he  is  staying  to  dine  with  us.  Oh !  I  beg  it  of 
you,"  she  added,  with  a  particular  insistence  as  she  saw  he 
was  going  to  refuse,  "  I  beg  you  to  stay.  Don't  say  no. 
You  will  be  rendering  me  a  real  service  by  staying  to-night. 
Come — I  didn't  hesitate  a  few  minutes  ago." 

She  had  taken  his  hand  ;  and  in  truth  one  might  have 
been  struck  by  a  strange  disproportion  between  her  request 
and  the  supplicating,  anxious  tone  in  which  it  was  made. 

215 


The  Nabob 

Paul  still  attempted  to  excuse  himself.  He  was  not  dressed. 
How  could  she  propose  it! — a  dinner  at  which  she  would 
have  other  guests. 

"  My  dinner  ?  But  I  will  countermand  it !  That  is  the 
kind  of  person  I  am.  We  shall  be  alone,  just  the  three  of 
us,  with  Constance." 

"  But,  Felicia,  my  child,  you  don't  really  think  of  such 
a  thing.  Ah,  well !  And  the — the  other  who  will  be  coming 
directly." 

"  I  am  going  to  write  to  him  to  stay  at  home,  parhleu!" 

"  You  unlucky  being,  it  is  too  late." 

"  Not  at  all.  It  is  striking  six  o'clock.  The  dinner  was 
for  half  past  seven.  You  must  have  this  sent  to  him 
quickly." 

She  was  writing  hastily  at  a  corner  of  the  table. 

"What  a  strange  girl,  mon  Dieu!  mon  Dicu!"  mur- 
mured the  dancer  in  bewilderment,  while  Felicia,  delighted, 
transfigured,  was  joyously  sealing  her  letter. 

"  There !  my  excuse  is  made.  Headaches  have  not  been 
invented  for  Kadour." 

Then,  the  letter  having  been  despatched : 

"  Oh,  how  pleased  I  am !  What  a  jolly  evening  we  shall 
have !  Do  kiss  me,  Constance !  It  will  not  prevent  us  from 
doing  honour  to  your  kitchen,  and  we  shall  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  you  in  a  pretty  toilette  which  makes  you  look 
younger  than  I  do." 

This  was  more  than  was  required  to  cause  the  dancer 
to  forgive  this  new  caprice  of  her  dear  demon,  and  the  crime 
of  lese-majeste  in  which  she  had  just  been  involved  against 
her  will.  To  treat  so  great  a  personage  so  cavalierly !  There 
was  no  one  like  her  in  the  world — there  was  no  one  like 
her.  Ai  for  Paul  de  Gery,  he  no  longer  tried  to  resist, 
under  the  spell  once  more  of,  that  attraction  from  which 
he  had  been  able  to  fancy  himself  released  by  absence,  but 
which,  from  the  moment  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  the 
-$tudio,  had  put  chains  on  his  will,  delivered  him  over,  bound 
and  vanquished,  to  the  sentiment  which  he  was  quite  re- 
solved to  combat. 

Evidently  the  dinner — a  repast  for  a  veritable  gourmet, 

216 


A  Day  of  Spleen 


superintended  by  the  Austrian  lady  in  its  least  details — had 
been  prepared  for  a  guest  of  great  mark.  From  the  lofty 
Kabyle  chandelier  with  its  seven  branches  of  carved  wood, 
which  cast  its  light  over  the  table-cloth  covered  with  em- 
broidery, to  the  long-necked  decanters  holding  the  wines 
within  their  strange  and  exquisite  form,  the  sumptuous 
magnificence  of  the  service,  the  delicacy  of  the  meats,  to 
W'hich  edge  was  given  by  a  certain  unusualness  in  their 
selection,  revealed  the  importance  of  the  expected  visitor, 
the  anxiety  which  there  had  been  to  please  him.  The  table 
was  certainly  that  of  an  artist.  Little  silver,  but  superb 
china,  much  unity  of  effect,  without  the  least  attempt  at 
matching.  The  old  Rouen,  the  pink  Sevres,  the  Dutch 
glass  mounted  in  old  filigree  pewter  met  on  this  table  as  on 
a  sideboard  devoted  to  the  display  of  rare  curios  collected 
by  a  connoisseur  exclusively  for  the  satisfaction  of  his  taste. 
A  little  disorder  naturally,  in  this  household  equipped  at 
hazard,  as  choice  things  could  be  picked  up.  The  wonder- 
ful cruet-stand  had  lost  its  stoppers.  The  chipped  salt- 
cellar allowed  its  contents  to  escape  on  the  table-cloth,  and 
at  every  moment  you  would  hear,  "  Why !  what  is  become 
of  the  mustard-pot?  "  "  What  has  happened  to  this  fork?  " 
This  embarrassed  de  Gery  a  little  on  account  of  the  young 
mistress  of  the  house,  who  for  her  part  took  no  notice  of  it. 

But  something  made  Paul  feel  still  more  ill  at  ease — 
his  anxiety,  namely,,  to  know  who  the  privileged  guest  might 
be  whom  he  was  replacing  at  this  table,  who  could  be  treated 
at  once  with  so  much  magnificence  and  so  complete  an  in- 
formality. In  spite  of  everything,  he  felt  him  present,  an 
offence  to  his  personal  dignity,  that  visitor  whose  invitation 
had  been  cancelled.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  tried  to  forget 
him ;  everything  brought  him  back  to  his  mind,  even  the 
fine  dress  of  the  good  fairy  sitting  opposite  him,  who  still 
maintained  some  of  the  grand  airs  with  which  she  had 
equipped  herself  in  advance  for  the  solemn  occasion.  This 
thought  troubled  him,  spoiled  for  him  the  pleasure  of  being 
there. 

On  the  other  hand,  by  contrast,  as  it  happens  in  all 
friendships  between  two  people  who  meet  very  rarely,  never 

217 


The  Nabob 

had  he  seen  Felicia  so  affectionate,  in  such  happy  temper. 
It  was  an  overflowing  gaiety  that  was  almost  childish,  one 
of  those  warm  expansions  of  feeling  that  are  experienced 
when  a  danger  has  been  passed,  the  reaction  of  a  bright, 
roaring  fire  after  the  emotion  of  a  shipwreck.  She  laughed 
heartily,  teased  Paul  about  his  accent  and  what  she  called 
his  bourgeois  ideas.  "  For  you  are  a  terrible  bourgeois,  you 
know.  But  it  is  that  that  I  like  in  you.  It  is  an  effect  of 
contraries,  doubtless ;  it  is  because  I  myself  was  born  under 
a  bridge,  in  a  gust  of  wind,  that  I  have  always  liked  sedate, 
reasonable  natures." 

"  Oh,  my  child,  what  are  you  going  to  have  M.  Paul 
think,  that  you  were  born  under  a  bridge  ?  "  said  the  good 
Crenmitz,  who  could  not  accustom  herself  to  the  exaggera- 
tion of  certain  metaphors,  and  always  took  everything 
literally. 

"  Let  him  think  what  he  likes,  my  fairy.  We  are  not 
trying  to  catch  him  for  a  husband.  I  am  sure  he  would  not 
want  one  of  those  monsters  who  are  known  as  female  artists. 
He  would  think  he  was  marrying  the  devil.  You  are  quite 
right,  Minerva.  Art  is  a  despot.  One  has  to  give  one's 
self  entirely  up  to  him.  To  toil  in  his  service,  one  devotes 
all  the  ideal,  all  the  energy,  honesty,  conscience,  that  one 
possesses,  so  that  you  have  none  of  these  things  left  for 
real  life,  and  the  completed  labour  throws  you  down, 
strengthless  and  without  a  compass,  like  a  dismantled  hulk 
at  the  mercy  of  everv  wave.  A  sorry  acquisition,  such  a 
wife!" 

"  And  yet,"  the  young  man  hazarded  timidly,  "  it  seems 
to  me  that  art,  however  exigent  it  be,  cannot  for  all  that 
entirely  absorb  a  woman.  What  would  she  do  with  her 
affections,  of  that  need  to  love,  to  devote  herself,  which  in 
her,  much  more  than  in  us,  is  the  spring  of  all  her  actions  ?  " 

She  mused  a  moment  before  replying. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,  wise  Minerva,  It  is  true  that 
there  are  days  when  my  life  rings  terribly  hollow.  I  am 
conscious  of  abysses,  profound  chasms  in  it.  Everything 
that  I  throw  in  to  fill  it  up  disappears.  My  finest  enthusi- 
asms of  the  artist  are  engulfed  there  and  die  each  time  in 

218 


A  Day  of  Spleen 

a  sigh.  And  then  I  think  of  marriage.  A  husband;  chil- 
dren— a  swarm  of  children,  who  would  roll  about  the  stu- 
dio; a  nest  to  look  after  for  them  all;  the  satisfaction  of 
that  physical  activity  which  is  lacking  in  our  existences  of 
artists ;  regular  occupations ;  high  spirits,  songs,  innocent 
gaieties,  which  would  oblige  you  to  play  instead  of  thinking 
in  the  air,  in  the  dark — to  laugh  at  a  wound  to  one's  self- 
love,  to  be  only  a  contented  mother  on  the  day  when  the 
public  should  see  you  as  a  worn-out,  exhausted  artist." 

And  before  this  tender  vision  the  girl's  beauty  took  on 
an  expression  which  Paul  had  never  seen  in  it  before,  an  ex- 
pression which  gripped  his  whole  being,  and  gave  him  a  mad 
longing  to  carry  ofi"  in  his  arms  that  beautiful  wild  bird, 
dreaming  of  the  home-cote,  to  protect  and  shelter  it  in  the 
sure  love  of  an  honest  man. 

She,  without  looking  at  him,  continued : 

"  I  am  not  so  erratic  as  I  appear ;  don't  think  it.  Ask 
my  good  godmother  if,  when  she  sent  me  to  boarding- 
school,  I  did  not  observe  the  rules.  But  what  a  muddle 
in  my  life  afterward.  If  you  knew  what  sort  of  an  early 
youth  I  had ;  how  precocious  an  experience  tarnished  my 
mind,  in  the  head  of  the  little  girl  I  was,  what  a  confusion 
of  the  permitted  and  the  forbidden,  of  reason  and  folly! 
Art  alone,  extolled  and  discussed,  stood  out  boldly  from 
among  it  all,  and  I  took  refuge  in  it.  That  is  perhaps  why 
I  shall  never  be  anything  but  an  artist,  a  woman  apart  from 
others,  a  poor  Amazon  with  heart  imprisoned  in  her  iron 
cuirass,  launched  into  the  conflict  like  a  man,  and  as  a  man 
condemned  to  live  and  die." 

Why  did  he  not  say  to  her,  at  this : 

"  Beauteous  lady-warrior,  lay  down  your  arms,  resume 
the  flowing  robe  and  the  graces  of  the  woman's  sphere.  I 
love  you !  Marry  me,  I  implore  you,  and  win  happiness 
both  for  yourself  and  me." 

Ah,  there  it  is !  He  was  afraid  lest  the  other — you  know 
him,  the  man  who  was  to  have  come  to  dinner  that  evening 
and  who  remained  between  them  despite  his  absence — 
should  hear  him  speak  thus  and  be  in  a  position  to  jest  at 
or  to  pity  him  for  that  fine  outburst. 

219  Vol.  18— K 


The  Nabob 

"  In  any  case,  I  firmly  swear  one  thing,"  she  resumed, 
"  and  it  is  that  if  ever  I  have  a  daughter,  I  will  try  to  make 
a  true  woman  of  her,  and  not  a  poor  lonely  creature  like 
myself.  Oh!  you  know,  my  fairy,  it  is  not  for  you  that  I 
say  that.  You  have  always  been  kind  to  your  demon,  full 
of  attentions  and  tenderness.  But  just  see  how  pretty  she 
is,  how  young  she  looks  this  evening." 

Animated  by  the  meal,  the  bright  lights,  one  of  those 
white  dresses  the  reflection  from  which  effaces  wrinkles, 
the  Crenmitz,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  held  up  on  a  level 
with  her  half-closed  eyes  a  glass  of  Chateau-Yquem,  come 
from  the  cellar  of  the  neighbouring  Moulin-Rouge ;  and 
her  dainty  little  rosy  face,  her  flowing  garments,  like  those 
you  might  see  in  some  pastel,  reflected  in  the  golden  wine, 
which  lent  to  them  its  own  piquant  fervour,  recalled  to  mind 
the  quondam  heroine  of  gay  little  suppers  after  the  theatre, 
the  Crenmitz  of  the  brave  old  days — not  an  audacious  crea- 
ture after  the  manner  of  the  stars  of  our  modern  opera, 
but  unconscious,  and  wrapped  in  her  luxury  like  a  fine  pearl 
in  the  delicate  whiteness  of  its  shell.  Felicia,  who  decidedly 
that  evening  was  anxious  to  please  everybody,  turned  her 
mind  gently  to  the  chapter  of  recollections ;  got  her  to  re- 
count once  more  her  great  triumphs  in  Gisclla,  in  the  Peri, 
and  the  ovations  of  the  public ;  the  visit  of  the  princes  to  her 
dressing-room ;  the  present  of  Queen  Amelia,  accompanied 
by  such  a  charming  little  speech.  The  recalling  of  these 
glories  intoxicated  the  poor  fairy;  her  eyes  shone;  they 
heard  her  little  feet  moving  impatiently  under  the  table  as 
though  seized  by  a  dancing  frenzy.  And  in  effect,  dinner 
over,  when  they  had  returned  to  the  studio,  Constance  began 
to  walk  backward  and  forward,  now  and  then  half  exe- 
cuting a  step,  a  pirouette,  while  continuing  to  talk,  inter- 
rupting herself  to  hum  some  ballad  air  of  which  she  would 
keep  the  rhythm  with  a  movement  of  the  head ;  then  sud- 
denly she  bent  herself  double,  and  with  a  bound  was  at  the 
other  end  of  the  studio. 

"  Now  she  is  off !  "  said  Felicia  in  a  low  voice  to  de 
Gery.  "  Watch !  It  is  worth  your  while ;  you  are  going 
to  see  the  Crenmitz  dance." 

220 


A  Day  of  Spleen 


It  was  charming  and  fair^^-like.  Against  the  background 
of  the  immense  room  lost  in  shadow  and  receiving  almost 
no  light  save  through  the  arched  glass  roof  over  which  the 
moon  was  climbing  in  a  pale  sky  of  night  blue,  a  veritable 
sky  of  the  opera,  the  silhouette  of  the  famous  dancer  stood 
out  all  white,  like  a  droll  little  shadow,  light  and  impon- 
derable, which  seemed  rather  to  be  flying  in  the  air  than 
springing  over  the  floor ;  then,  erect  upon  the  tips  of  her 
toes,  supported  in  the  air  only  by  her  extended  arms,  her 
face  lifted  m  an  elusive  pose  which  left  nothing  visible  but 
the  smile,  she  advanced  quickly  towards  the  light  or  fled 
away  with  little  rushes  so  rapid  that  you  were  constantly 
expecting  to  hear  a  slight  shivering  of  glass  and  to  see  her 
thus  mount  backward  the  slope  of  the  great  moonbeam 
that  lay  aslant  the  studio.  That  which  added  a  charm,  a 
singular  poetry,  to  this  fantastic  ballet  was  the  absence 
of  music,  the  sound  alone  of  the  rhythmical  beat  the 
force  of  which  was  accentuated  by  the  semi-darkness,  of 
that  quick  and  light  tapping  not  heavier  on  the  parquet 
floor  than  the  fall,  petal  by  petal,  of  a  dahlia  going  out 
of  bloom. 

Thus  it  went  on  for  some  minutes,  at  the  end  of  which 
they  knew,  by  hearing  her  shorter  breathing,  that  she  was 
becoming  fatigued. 

"  Enough !  enough !  Sit  down  now,"  said  Felicia.  There- 
upon the  little  white  shadow  halted  beside  an  easy  chair, 
and  there  remained  posed,  ready  to  start  off  again,  smiling 
and  breathless,  until  sleep  overcame  her,  rocking  and  bal- 
ancing her  gently  withoui  disturbing  her  pretty  pose,  as  of 
a  dragon-fly  on  the  branch  of  a  willow  dipping  in  the  water 
and  swayed  by  the  current. 

While  they  watched  her.  dozing  on  her  easy  chair, 

"  Poor  little  fairy !  "  said  Felicia,  "  hers  is  what  I  have 
had  best  and  most  serious  in  my  life  in  the  way  of  friend- 
ship, protection,  and  guardianship.  It  is  this  butterfly  that 
has  been  my  godmother.  Can  you  wonder  now  at  the  zig- 
zags, the  erratic  nature  of  my  mind  ?  Fortunate  at  that,  to 
have  gone  no  further." 

And  suddenly,  with  a  joyous  effusion  of  feeling: 

221 


The  Nabob 

"  Ah,  Minerva,  Minerva,  I  am  very  glad  that  you  came 
this  evening!  But  you  must  not  leave  me  to  myself  for 
so  long  again,  mind.  I  need  to  have  near  me  an  honest 
mind  like  yours,  to  see  a  true  face  among  the  masks  that 
surround  me.  A  fearful  bourgeois,  all  the  same,"  she  added, 
laughing,  "  and  a  provincial  into  the  bargain.  But  no 
matter!  It  is  you,  for  all  that,  whom  it  gives  me  the  most 
pleasure  to  see.  And  I  believe  that  my  liking  for  you  is 
due  especially  to  one  thing:  you  remind  me  of  some 
one  who  was  the  great  affection  of  my  youth,  a  sedate 
and  sensible  little  being  she  also,  chained  to  the  matter- 
of-fact  side  of  existence,  but  tempering  it  with  that 
ideal  element  which  we  artists  set  aside  exclusively  for 
the  profit  of  our  work.  Certain  things  which  you  say 
seem  to  me  as  though  they  had  come  from  her.  You  have 
the  same  mouth,  like  an  antique  model's.  Is  it  that  that 
gives  this  resemblance  to  your  words?  I  have  no  idea, 
but  most  certainly  you  are  like  each  other.  You  shall 
see." 

On  the  table  laden  with  sketches  and  albums,  at  which 
she  was  sitting  facing  him,  she  drew,  as  she  talked,  with 
brow  inclined  and  her  rather  wild  curly  hair  shading  her 
graceful  little  head.  She  was  no  longer  the  beautiful 
couchant  monster,  with  the  anxious  and  gloomy  counte- 
nance, condemning  her  own  destiny,  but  a  woman,  a  true 
woman,  in  love,  and  eager  to  beguile.  This  time  Paul  for- 
got all  his  mistrusts  in  presence  of  so  much  sincerity  and 
such  passing  grace.  He  was  about  to  speak,  to  persuade. 
The  minute  was  decisive.  But  the  door  opened  and  the 
little  page  appeared.  M.  le  Due  had  sent  to  inquire  whether 
mademoiselle  was  still  suffering  from  her  headache  of 
earlier  in  the  evening. 

"  Still  just  as  much,"  she  said  with  irritation. 

When  the  servant  had  gone  out,  a  moment  of  silence  fell 
between  them,  a  glacial  coldness.  Paul  had  risen.  She 
continued  her  sketch,  with  her  head  still  bowed. 

He  took  a  few  paces  in  the  studio ;  then,  having  come 
back  to  the  table,  he  asked  quietly,  astonished  to  feel  him- 
self so  calm: 

,     222 


A   Day  of  Spleen 


"  It  was  the  Due  de  Mora  who  was  to  have  dined  here  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  was  bored — a  day  of  spleen.  Days  of  that 
kind  are  bad  for  me." 

''  Was  the  duchess  to  have  come  ?  " 

"  The  duchess  ?    No.    I  don't  know  her." 

"  Well,  in  your  place  I  would  never  receive  in  my  house, 
at  my  table,  a  married  man  whose  wife  I  did  not  meet. 
You  complain  of  being  deserted ;  why  desert  yourself  ? 
When  one  is  without  reproach,  one  should  avoid  the  very 
suspicion  of  it.    Do  I  vex  you  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  scold  me,  Minerva.  I  have  no  objection  to 
your  ethics.  They  are  honest  and  frank,  yours ;  they  do 
not  blink  uncertain,  like  those  of  Jenkins.  I  told  you,  I 
need  some  one  to  guide  me." 

And  tossing  over  to  him  the  sketch  which  she  had 
just  finished : 

"  See,  that  is  the  friend  of  whom  I  was  speaking  to  you. 
A  profound  and  sure  affection,  which  I  was  foolish  enough 
to  allow  to  be  lost  to  me,  like  the  bungler  I  am.  She  it 
was  to  whom  I  appealed  in  moments  of  difficulty,  when 
a  decision  required  to  be  taken,  some  sacrifice  made. 
I  used  to  say  to  myself,  '  What  will  she  think  of  this  ? ' 
just  as  we  artists  may  stop  in  the  midst  of  a  piece  of 
work  to  refer  it  mentally  to  some  great  man,  one  of  our 
masters.  I  must  have  you  take  her  place  for  me.  Will 
you?" 

Paul  did  not  answer.  He  was  looking  at  the  portrait 
of  Aline.  It  was  she,  herself  to  the  letter;  her  pure  profile, 
her  mocking  and  kindly  mouth,  and  the  long  curl  like  a 
caress  on  the  delicate  neck.    Felicia  had  ceased  to  exist  for 

him. 

Poor  Felicia,  endowed  with  superior  talents,  she  was 
indeed  like  those  magicians  who  knot  and  unknot  the  des- 
tinies of  men,  without  possessing  any  power  over  their  own 
happiness. 

"  Will  you  give  me  this  sketch  ?  "  he  said  in  a  low,  quiv- 
ering voice. 

"Most  willingly.  She  is  nice— isn't  she?  Ah!  her 
indeed,  if  you  should  meet,  love  her,  marry  her.     She  is 

223 


The  Nabob 

worth  more  than  all  the  rest  of  womankind  together.    And 

yet,  failing  her — failing  her " 

And  the  beautiful  sphinx,  tamed,  raised  to  him,  moist 
and  laughing,  her  great  eyes,  in  which  the  enigma  had 
ceased  to  be  indecipherable. 


■224 


XIV 
the  exhibition 

"Superb!" 

"  A  tremendous  success !  Barye  has  never  done  any- 
thing so  good  before." 

"  And  the  bust  of  the  Nabob !  What  a  marvel.  How 
happv  Constance  Crenmitz  is!  Look  at  her  trotting 
about!" 

"  What !  That  Httle  old  lady  in  the  ermine  cape  is  the 
Crenmitz  ?    I  thought  she  had  been  dead  twenty  years  ago." 

Oh,  no !  Very  much  alive,  on  the  contrary.  Delighted, 
made  young  again  by  the  triumph  of  her  goddaughter,  who 
has  made  what  is  decidedly  the  success  of  the  exhibition,  she 
passes  about  among  the  crowd  of  artists  and  fashionable  peo- 
ple, who,  wedged  together  and  stifling  themselves  in  order  to 
get  a  look  at  the  two  points  where  the  works  sent  by  Felicia 
are  exhibited,  form  as  it  were  two  solid  masses  of  black 
backs  and  jumbled  dresses.  Constance,  ordinarily  so  timid, 
edges  her  way  into  the  front  rank,  listens  to  the  discussions, 
catches,  as  they  fly  disjointed  phrases,  formulas  which  she 
takes  care  to  remember,  approves  with  a  nod,  smiles,  raises 
her  shoulders  when  she  hears  a  stupid  remark  made,  in- 
clined to  murder  the  first  person  who  should  not  admire. 

Whether  it  be  the  good  Crenmitz  or  another,  you  will 
always  see  it  at  every  opening  of  the  Salon,  that  furtive 
silhouette,  prowling  near  wherever  a  conversation  is  going 
on,  with  an  anxious  manner  and  alert  ear;  sometimes  a 
simple  old  fellow,  some  father,  whose  glance  thanks  you  for 
any  kind  word  said  in  passing,  or  assumes  a  grieved  ex- 
pression by  reason  of  some  epigram,  flung  at  the  work  of 
art,  that  may  wound  some  heart  behind  you.  A  figure  not 
to  be  forgotten,  certainly,  if  ever  it  should  occur  to  any 

225 


The  Nabob 

painter  with  a  passion  for  modernity  to  fix  on  canvas  that 
very  typical  manifestation  of  Parisian  Hfe,  the  opening  of 
an  exhibition  in  that  vast  conservatory  of  sculpture,  with 
its  paths  of  yellow  sand,  and  its  immense  glass  roof  beneath 
which,  half-way  up,  stand  out  the  galleries  of  the  first  floor, 
lined  by  heads  bent  over  to  look  down,  and  decorated  with 
improvised  flowing  draperies. 

In  a  rather  cold  light,  made  pallid  by  those  green  cur- 
tains that  hang  all  around,  in  which  one  would  fancy  that 
the  light-rays  became  rarefied,  in  order  to  give  to  the  vision 
of  the  people  walking  about  the  room  a  certain  contem- 
plative justice,  the  slow  crowd  goes  and  comes,  pauses,  dis- 
perses itself  over  the  seats  in  serried  groups,  and  yet  mixing 
up  different  sections  of  society  more  thoroughly  than  any 
other  assembly,  just  as  the  weather,  uncertain  and  change- 
able at  this  time  of  the  year,  produces  a  confusion  in  the 
world  of  clothes,  causes  to  brush  each  other  as  they  pass, 
the  black  laces,  the  imperious  train  of  the  great  lady  come 
to  see  how  her  portrait  looks,  and  the  Siberian  furs  of  the 
actress  just  back  from  Russia  and  anxious  that  everybody 
should  know  it. 

Here,  no  boxes,  no  stalls,  no  reserved  seats,  and  it  is 
this  that  gives  to  this  premiere  in  full  daylight  so  great  a 
charm  of  curiosity.  Genuine  ladies  of  fashion  are  able  to 
form  an  opinion  of  those  painted  beauties  who  receive  so 
much  commendation  in  an  artificial  light ;  the  little  hat,  fol- 
lowing a  new  mode  of  the  Marquise  de  Bois  I'Hery,  con- 
fronts the  more  than  modest  toilette  of  some  artist's  wife 
or  daughter;  while  the  model  who  posed  for  that  beautiful 
Andromeda  at  the  entrance,  goes  by  victoriously,  clad  in 
too  short  a  skirt,  in  AVretched  garments  that  hide  her  beauty 
beneath  all  the  false  lines  of  fashion.  People  observe,  ad- 
mire, criticise  each  other,  exchange  glances  contemptuous, 
disdainful,  or  curious,  interrupted  suddenly  at  the  passage 
of  a  celebrity,  of  that  illustrious  critic  whom  we  seem  still 
to  see,  tranquil  and  majestic,  his  powerful  head  framed  in 
its  long  hair,  making  the  round  of  the  exhibits  in  sculpture 
followed  by  a  dozen  young  disciples  eager  to  hear  the  ver- 
dict of  his  kindly  authority.    If  the  sound  of  voices  is  lost 

226 


The  Exhibition 

beneath  that  immense  dome,  sonorous  only  under  the  two 
vaults  of  the  entrance  and  the  exit,  faces  take  on  there  an 
astonishing  intensity,  a  relief  of  movement  and  animation 
concentrated  especially  in  the  huge,  dark  bay  where  re- 
freshments are  served,  crowded  to  overflowing  and  full  of 
gesticulation,  the  brightly  coloured  hats  of  the  women  and 
the  white  aprons  of  the  waiters  gleaming  against  the  back- 
ground of  dark  clothes,  and  in  the  great  space  in  the  middle 
where  the  oval  swarming  with  visitors  makes  a  singular  con- 
trast with  the  immobility  of  the  exhibited  statues,  producing 
the  insensible  palpitation  with  which  their  marble  whiteness 
and  their  movements  as  of  apotheosis  are  surrounded. 

There  are  wings  poised  in  giant  flight,  a  sphere  sup- 
ported by  four  allegorical  figures  whose  attitude  of  turning 
suggests  some  vague  waltz-measure — a  total  effect  of  equi- 
librium well  conveying  the  illusion  of  the  sweeping  onward 
of  the  earth ;  and  there  are  arms  raised  to  give  a  signal, 
bodies  heroically  risen,  containing  an  allegory,  a  symbol 
which  stamps  them  with  death  and  immortality,  secures  to 
them  a  place  in  history,  in  legend,  in  that  ideal  world  of. 
museums  which  is  visited  by  the  curiosity  or  the  admiration 
of  the  nations. 

Although  Felicia's  group  in  bronze  had  not  the  propor- 
tions of  these  large  pieces,  its  exceptional  merit  had  caused 
it  to  be  selected  to  adorn  one  of  the  open  spaces  in  the 
middle,  from  which  at  this  moment  the  public  was  holding 
itself  at  a  respectful  distance,  watching,  over  the  hedge  of 
custodians  and  policemen,  the  Bey  of  Tunis  and  his  suite, 
an  array  of  long  bernouses  falling  in  sculptural  folds,  which 
had  the  effect  of  placing  living  statues  opposite  the  other 
ones. 

The  Bey,  who  had  been  in  Paris  since  a  few  days  be- 
fore, and  was  the  lion  of  all  the  prcmihcs,  had  desired  to 
see  the  opening  of  the  exhibition.  He  was  "  an  enlightened 
prince,  a  friend  of  art,"  who  possessed  at  the  Bardo  a  gal- 
lery of  remarkable  Turkish  paintings  and  chromo-litho- 
graphic  reproductions  of  all  the  battles  of  the  First  Em- 
pire. The  moment  he  entered,  the  sight  of  the  big  Arab 
greyhound  had  struck  him  as  he  passed.    It  was  the  sleughi 

227 


The  Nabob 

all  over,  the  true  sletighi,  delicate  and  nervous,  of  his  own 
country,  the  companion  of  all  his  hunting  expeditions.  He 
laughed  in  his  black  beard,  felt  the  loins  of  the  animal, 
stroked  its  muscles,  seemed  to  want  to  urge  it  on  still  faster, 
while  with  nostrils  open,  teeth  showing,  all  its  limbs 
stretched  out  and  unwearying  in  their  vigorous  elasticity, 
the  aristocratic  beast,  the  beast  of  prey,  ardent  in  love  and 
the  chase,  intoxicated  with  their  double  intoxication,  its  eyes 
fixed,  was  already  enjoying  a  foretaste  of  its  capture  with 
a  little  end  of  its  tongue  which  hung  and  seemed  to  sharpen 
the  teeth  with  a  ferocious  laugh.  When  you  only  looked  at 
the  hound  you  said  to  yourself,  "  He  has  got  him !  "  But 
the  sight  of  the  fox  reassured  you  immediately.  Beneath 
the  velvet  of  his  lustrous  coat,  cat-like  almost  lying  along 
the  ground,  covering  it  rapidly  without  effort,  you  felt  him 
to  be  a  veritable  fairy ;  and  his  delicate  head  with  its  pointed 
ears,  which  as  he  ran  he  turned  towards  the  hound,  had 
an  expression  of  ironical  security  which  clearly  marked  the 
gift  received  from  the  gods. 

While  an  Inspector  of  Fine  Arts,  who  had  rushed  up  in 
all  haste,  with  his  official  dress  in  disorder,  and  a  head  bald 
sight  down  to  his  back,  explained  to  Mohammed  the  apo- 
logue of  "  The  Dog  and  the  Fox,"  related  in  the  descriptive 
catalogue  with  these  words  inscribed  beneath,  "  Now  it  hap- 
pened that  they  met,"  and  the  indication,  "  The  property 
of  the  Due  de  Mora,"  the  fat  Hemerlingue,  perspiring  and 
puffing  by  his  Highness's  side,  had  great  difficulty  to  con- 
vince him  that  this  masterly  piece  of  sculpture  was  the  work 
of  the  beautiful  lady  whom  they  had  encountered  the  pre- 
vious evening  riding  in  the  Bois.  How  could  a  woman, 
with  her  feeble  hands,  thus  mould  the  hard  bronze,  and  give 
to  it  the  very  appearance  of  the  living  body?  Of  all  the 
marvels  of  Paris,  this  was  the  one  which  caused  the  Bey 
the  most  astonishment.  He  inquired  consequently  from  the 
functionary  if  there  was  nothing  else  to  see  by  the  same 
artist. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  monseigneur,  another  masterpiece.  If 
your  Highness  will  deign  to  step  this  way  I  will  conduct  you 
to  it." 

228 


The  Exhibition 

The  Bey  commenced  to  move  on  again  with  his  suite. 
They  were  all  admirable  types,  with  chiselled  features  and 
pure  lin'es,  warm  pallors  of  complexion  of  which  even  the 
reflections  were  absorbed  by  the  whiteness  of  their  haiks. 
Magnificently  draped,  they  contrasted  with  the  busts  ranged 
on  either  side  of  the  aisle  they  were  following,  which, 
perched  on  their  high  columns,  looking  slender  in  the  open 
air,  exiled  from  their  own  home,  from  the  surroundings  in 
which  doubtless  they  would  have  recalled  severe  labours, 
a  tender  affection,  a  busy  and  courageous  existence,  had 
the  sad  aspect  of  people  gone  astray  from  their  path,  and 
very  regretful  to  find  themselves  in  their  present  situation. 
Excepting  two  or  three  female  heads,  with  opulent  shoulders 
framed  in  petrified  lace,  and  hair  rendered  in  marble  with 
that  softness  of  touch  which  gives  it  the  lightness  of  a  pow- 
dered wig,  excepting,  too,  a  few  profiles  of  children  with 
their  simple  lines,  in  which  the  polish  of  the  stone  seems  to 
resemble  the  moistness  of  the  Hving  flesh,  all  the  rest  were 
only  wrinkles,  crow's-feet,  shrivelled  features  and  grimaces, 
our  excesses  in  work  and  in  movement,  our  nervousness  and 
our  feverishness,  opposing  themselves  to  that  art  of  repose 
and  of  beautiful  serenity. 

The  ugliness  of  the  Nabob  had  at  least  energ>-  in  its 
favour,  the  vulgar  side  of  him  as  an  adventurer,  and  that 
expression  of  benevolence,  so  well  rendered  by  the  artist^ 
who  had  taken  care  to  underlay  her  plaster  with  a  layer 
of  ochre,  which  gave  it  almost  the  weather-beaten  and  sun- 
burned tone  of  the  model.  The  Arabs,  when  they  saw  it, 
uttered  a  stifled  exclamation,  "Bou-Saidl"  (the  father  of 
good  fortune).  This  was  the  surname  of  the  Nabob  in 
Tunis,  the  label,  as  it  were,  of  his  luck.  The  Bey,  for  his 
part,  thinking  that  some  one  had  wished  to  play  a  trick 
on  him  in  thus  leading  him  to  inspect  the  bust  of  the  hated 
trader,  regarded  his  guide  with  mistrust. 

"  Jansoulet  ?  "  said  he  in  his  guttural  voice. 
"  Yes,  Highness :  Bernard  Jansoulet,  the  new  deputy  for 
Corsica." 

This  time  the  Bey  turned  to  Hemcrlingue,  with  a  frown 

on  his  brow. 

229 


The  Nabob 

"Deputy?" 

"  Yes,  monseigneur,  since  this  morning ;  but  nothing  is 
yet  settled." 

And  the  banker,  raising  his  voice,  added  with  a  stutter : 
"  No  French  Chamber  will  ever  admit  that  adventurer." 
No  matter.  The  stroke  had  fallen  on  the  blind  faith 
of  the  Bey  in  his  baron  hnancier.  The  latter  had  so  confi- 
dently affirmed  to  him  that  the  other  would  never  be  elected 
and  that  their  action  with  regard  to  him  need  not  be  fettered 
or  in  any  way  hampered  by  the  least  fear.  And  now,  instead 
of  a  man  ruined  and  overthrown,  there  rose  before  him  a 
representative  of  the  nation,  a  deputy  whose  portrait  in 
stone  the  Parisians  were  coming  to  admire ;  for  in  the  eyes 
of  the  Oriental,  an  idea  of  distinction  being  mingled  in  spite 
of  everything  with  this  public  exhibition,  that  bust  had  the 
prestige  of  a  statue  dominating  a  square.  Still  more  yellow 
than  usual,  Hemerlingue  internally  accused  himself  of 
clumsiness  and  imprudence.  But  how  could  he  ever  have 
dreamed  of  such  a  thing?  He  had  been  assured  that  the 
bust  was  not  finished.  And  in  fact  it  had  been  there  only 
since  morning,  and  seemed  quite  at  home,  quiveritig  with 
satisfied  pride,  defying  its  enemies  with  the  good-tempered 
smile  of  its  curling  lip.  A  veritable  silent  revenge  for  the 
disaster  of  Saint-Romans. 

For  some  minutes  the  Bey,  cold  and  impassible  as  the 
sculptured  image,  gazed  at  it  without  saying  anything,  his 
forehead  divided  by  a  straight  crease  wherein  his  courtiers 
alone  could  read  his  anger ;  then,  after  two  quick  words  in 
Arabic,  to  order  the  carriages  and  to  reassemble  his  scattered 
suite,  he  directed  his  steps  gravely  towards  the  door  of 
exit,  without  consenting  to  give  even  a  glance  to  anything 
vise.  Who  shall  say  what  passes  in  these  august  brains 
surfeited  with  power?  Even  our  sovereigns  of  the  West 
have  incomprehensible  fantasies ;  but  they  are  nothing  com- 
pared with  Oriental  caprices.  Monsieur  the  Inspector  of 
Fine  Arts,  who  had  made  sure  of  taking  his  Highness  all 
round  the  exhibition  and  of  thus  winning  the  pretty  red- 
and-green  ribbon  of  the  Nicham-Iftikahr,  never  knew  the 
secret  of  this  sudden  flight. 

230 


The  Exhibition 

At  the  moment  when  the  white  haiks  were  disappearing 
under  the  porch,  just  in  time  to  see  the  last  wave  of  their 
folds,  the  Nabob  made  his  entry  by  the  middle  door.  In 
the  morning  he  had  received  the  news,  "  Elected  by  an 
overwhelming  majority";  and  after  a  sumptuous  luncheon, 
at  which  the  new  deputy  for  Corsica  had  been  extensively 
toasted,  he  came,  with  some  of  his  guests,  to  show  himself, 
to  see  himself  also,  to  enjoy  all  his  new  glory. 

The  first  person  whom  he  saw  as  he  arrived  was  Felicia 
Ruys,  standing,  leaning  on  the  pedestal  of  a  statue,  sur- 
rounded by  compliments  and  tributes  of  admiration,  to 
which  he  made  haste  to  add  his  own.  She  was  simply 
dressed,  clad  in  a  black  costume  embroidered  and  trimmed 
with  jet,  tempering  the  severity  of  her  attire  with  a  glitter- 
ing of  reflected  lights,  and  with  a  delightful  little  hat  all 
made  of  downy  plumes,  the  play  of  colour  in  which  her 
hair,  curled  delicately  on  her  forehead  and  drawn  back  to 
the  neck  in  great  waves,  seemed  to  continue  and  to  soften, 

A  crowd  of  artists  and  fashionable  people  were  assid- 
uous in  their  attentions  to  so  great  a  genius  allied  to  so 
much  beauty ;  and  Jenkins,  bareheaded,  and  puffing  with 
warm  effusiveness,  was  going  from  one  to  the  other,  stimu- 
lating their  enthusiasm  but  widening  the  circle  around  this 
young  fame  of  which  he  constituted  himself  at  once  the 
guardian  and  the  trumpeter.  His  wife  during  this  time 
was  talking  with  the  young  girl.  Poor  Mme.  Jenkins !  She 
had  heard  that  savage  voice,  which  she  alone  knew,  say  to 
her,  "  You  must  go  and  greet  Felicia,"  And  she  had  gone 
to  do  so,  controlling  her  emotion ;  for  she  knew  now  what 
it  was  that  hid  itself  at  the  bottom  of  that  paternal  affec- 
tion, although  she  avoided  all  discussion  of  it  with  the  doc- 
tor, as  if  she  had  been  fearful  of  the  issue. 

After  Mme.  Jenkins,  it  is  the  turn  of  the  Nabob  to  rush 
up,  and  taking  the  artist's  two  long,  delicately-gloved  hands 
between  his  fat  paws,  he  expresses  his  gratitude  with  a 
cordiality  which  brings  the  tears  to  his  own  eyes. 

"  It  is  a  great  honour  that  you  have  done  me,  mademoi- 
selle, to  associate  my  name  with  yours,  my  huml^lc  person 
with  your  triumph,  and  to  prove  to  all  this  vermin  gnawing 

231 


The  Nabob 

at  my  heels  that  you  do  not  beHeve  the  calumnies  which 
have  been  spread  with  regard  to  me.  Yes,  truly,  I  shall 
never  forget  it.  In  vain  I  may  cover  this  magnificent  bust 
with  gold  and  diamonds,  I  shall  still  be  your  debtor." 

Fortunately  for  the  good  Nabob,  with  more  feeling  than 
eloquence,  he  is  obliged  to  make  way  for  all  the  others  at- 
tracted by  a  dazzling  talent,  the  personality  in  view ;  extrav- 
agant enthusiasms  which,  for  want  of  words  to  express 
themselves,  disappear  as  they  come;  the  conventional  ad- 
mirations of  society,  moved  by  good-will,  by  a  lively  desire 
to  please,  but  of  which  each  word  is  a  douche  of  cold  water ; 
and  then  the  hearty  hand-shakes  of  rivals,  of  comrades,  some 
very  frank,  others  that  communicate  to  you  the  weakness 
of  their  grasp ;  the  pretentious  great  booby,  at  whose  idiotic 
eulogy  you  must  appear  to  be  transported  with  gladness, 
and  who,  lest  he  should  spoil  you  too  much,  accompanies  it 
with  "  a  few  little  reserves,"  and  the  other,  who,  while  over- 
whelming you  with  compliments,  demonstrates  to  you  that 
you  have  not  learned  the  first  word  of  your  profession ;  and 
the  excellent  busy  fellow,  who  stops  just  long  enough  to 
whisper  in  your  ear  "  that  so-and-so,  the  famous  critic,  does 
not  look  very  pleased."  Felicia  listened  to  it  all  with  the 
greatest  calm,  raised  by  her  success  above  the  littleness  of 
envy,  and  quite  proud  when  a  glorious  veteran,  some  old 
comrade  of  her  father,  threw  to  her  a  "  You've  done  very 
well,  little  one !  "  which  took  her  back  to  the  past,  to  the 
little  corner  reserved  for  her  in  the  old  days  in  her  father's 
studio,  when  she  was  beginning  to  carve  out  a  little  glory 
for  herself  under  the  protection  of  the  renown  of  the  great 
Ruys.  But,  taken  altogether,  the  congratulations  left  her 
rather  cold,  because  there  lacked  one  which  she  desired 
more  than  any  other,  and  which  she  was  surprised  not  to 
have  yet  received.  Decidedly  he  was  more  often  in  her 
thoughts  than  any  other  man  had  ever  been.  Was  it  love 
at  last,  the  great  love  which  is  so  rare  in  an  artist's  soul, 
incapable  as  that  is  of  giving  itself  entirely  up  to  the  sway 
of  sentiment,  or  was  it  perhaps  simply  a  dream  of  honest 
bourgeoise  life,  well  sheltered  against  ennui,  that  spiritless 
ennui,  the  precursor  of  storms,  which  she  had  so  much 

232 


The  Exhibition 

reason  to  dread?  In  any  case,  she  was  herself  taken  in  by 
it,  and  had  been  Hving  for  some  days  past  in  a  state  of 
delicious  trouble,  for  love  is  so  strong,  so  beautiful  a  thing, 
that  its  semblances,  its  mirages,  allure  and  can  move  us  as 
deeply  as  itself. 

Has  it  ever  happened  to  you  in  the  street,  when  you 
have  been  preoccupied  with  thoughts  of  some  one  dear  to 
you,  to  be  warned  of  his  approach  by  meeting  persons  with 
a  vague  resemblance  to  him,  preparatory  images,  sketches 
of  the  type  to  appear  directly  afterward,  which  stand  out 
for  you  from  the  crowd  like  successive  appeals  to  your  over- 
excited attention?  Such  presentiments  are  magnetic  and 
nervous  impressions  at  which  one  should  not  be  too  disposed 
to  smile,  since  they  constitute  a  faculty  of  suffering.  Al- 
ready, in  the  moving  and  constantly  renewed  stream  of  vis- 
itors, Felicia  had  several  times  thought  to  recognise  the 
curly  head  of  Paul  de  Gery,  when  suddenly  she  uttered  a  cry 
of  joy.  It  was  not  he,  however,  this  time  again,  but  some 
one  who  resembled  him  closely,  whose  regular  and  peaceful 
physiognomy  was  always  now  connected  in  her  mind  with 
that  of  her  friend  Paul  through  the  effect  of  a  likeness  more 
moral  than  physical,  and  the  gentle  authority  which  both 
exercised  over  her  thoughts. 

"  Aline !  " 

"  Felicia !  " 

If  nothing  is  more  open  to  suspicion  than  the  friendship 
of  two  fashionable  ladies  sharing  the  prerogatives  of  draw- 
ing-room royalty  and  lavishing  on  each  other  flattering  epi- 
thets, and  the  trivial  graces  of  feminine  fondness,  the  friend- 
ships of  childhood  keep  in  the  grown  woman  a  frankness  of 
manner  which  distinguishes  them,  and  makes  them  recog- 
nisable among  all  others,  bonds  woven  naively  and  firm  as 
the  needlework  of  little  girls  in  which  an  inexperienced  hand 
has  been  prodigal  of  thread  and  big  knots ;  plants  reared  in 
fresh  soil,  in  flower,  but  with  strong  roots,  full  of  vitality  and 
new  shoots.  And  what  a  joy,  hand  in  hand — you  glad  dances 
of  boarding-school  days,  where  are  you? — to  retrace  some 
steps  of  one's  way  with  somebody  who  has  an  equal  ac- 
quaintance with  it  and  its  least  incidents,  and  the  same 

233 


The  Nabob 

laugh  of  tender  retrospection.  A  little  apart,  the  two  girls, 
for  whom  it  has  been  sufficient  to  find  themselves  once  more 
face  to  face  to  forget  five  years  of  separation,  carry  on  a 
rapid  exchange  of  recollections,  while  the  little  pere  Joyeuse, 
his  ruddy  face  brightened  by  a  new  cravat,  straightens  him- 
self in  pride  to  see  his  daughter  thus  warmly  welcomed  by 
such  an  illustrious  person.  Proud  certainly  he  has  reason  to 
be,  for  the  little  Parisian,  even  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
her  brilliant  friend,  holds  her  own  in  grace,  youth,  fair 
candour,  beneath  her  twenty  smooth  and  golden  years, 
which  the  gladness  of  this  meeting  brings  to  fresh  bloom. 

"  How  happy  you  must  be !  For  my  part,  I  have  seen 
nothing  yet;  but  I  hear  everybody  saying  it  is  so  beau- 
tiful." 

"  Happy  above  all  to  see  you  again,  little  Aline.  It  is 
so  long " 

"  I  should  think  so,  you  naughty  girl !  Whose  the 
fault?" 

And  from  the  saddest  corner  of  her  memory,  Felicia 
recalls  the  date  of  the  breaking  off  of  their  relations,  coin- 
ciding for  her  with  another  date  on  which  her  youth  came 
to  its  end  in  an  unforgettable  scene. 

"  And  what  have  you  been  doing,  darling,  all  this 
time?" 

"  Oh,  I,  always  the  same  thing — or,  nothing  to  speak 
of." 

"  Yes,  yes,  we  know  what  you  call  doing  nothing,  you 
brave  little  thing!  Giving  your  life  to  other  people,  isn't 
it?" 

But  Aline  was  no  longer  listening.  She  was  smiling 
affectionately  to  some  one  straight  in  front  of  her ;  and  Fe- 
licia, turning  round  to  see  who  it  was,  perceived  Paul  de 
Gery  replying  to  the  shy  and  tender  greeting  of  Mile. 
Joyeuse. 

"  You  know  each  other,  then  ?  " 

"  Do  I  know  M.  Paul !  I  should  think  so,  indeed.  We 
talk  of  you  very  often.     He  has  never  told  you,  then  ?  " 

"  Never.    He  must  be  a  terribly  sly  fellow." 

She  stopped  short,  her  mind  enlightened  by  a  flash ;  and 

234 


The  Exhibition 

quickly,  without  heed  to  de  Gery,  who  was  coming  up  to 
congratulate  her  on  her  triumph,  she  leaned  over  towards 
Aline  and  spoke  to  her  in  a  low  voice.  That  young  lady 
blushed,  protested  with  smiles  and  words  under  her  breath : 
"  How  can  you  think  of  such  a  thing?  At  my  age — a 
*  grandmamma '  !  "  and  finally  seized  her  father's  arm  in 
order  to  escape  some  friendly  teasing. 

When  Felicia  saw  the  two  young  people  going  off  to- 
gether, when  she  had  realized  the  fact,  which  they  had  not 
yet  grasped  themselves,  that  they  were  in  love  with  each 
other,  she  felt  as  it  were  a  crumbling  all  around  her.  Then 
upon  her  dream,  now  fallen  to  the  ground  in  a  thousand 
fragments,  she  set  herself  to  stamp  furiously.  After  all,  he 
was  quite  right  to  prefer  this  little  Aline  to  herself.  Would 
an  honest  man  ever  dare  to  marry  Mile.  Ruys?  She,  a 
home,  a  family — what  nonsense!  A  harlot's  daughter  you 
are,  my  dear ;  you  must  be  a  harlot  too  if  you  want  to  be- 
come anything  at  all. 

The  day  wore  on.  The  crowd,  more  active  now  that 
there  were  empty  spaces  here  and  there,  commenced  to 
stream  towards  the  door  of  exit  after  great  eddyings  round 
the  successes  of  the  year,  satisfied,  rather  tired,  but  excited 
still  by  that  air  charged  with  the  electricity  of  art.  A  great 
flood  of  sunlight,  such  as  sometimes  occurs  at  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  fell  on  the  stained-glass  rose-window, 
threw  on  the  sand  tracks  of  rainbow-coloured  lights,  softly 
bathing  the  bronze  or  the  marble  of  the  statues,  imparting 
an  iridescent  hue  to  the  nudity  of  a  beautiful  figure,  giving 
to  the  vast  museum  something  of  the  luminous  life  of  a 
garden.  Felicia,  absorbed  in  her  deep  and  sad  reverie,  did 
not  notice  the  man  who  advanced  towards  her,  superb,  ele- 
gant, fascinating,  through  the  respectfully  opened  ranks  of 
the  public,  while  the  name  of  "  Mora "  was  everywhere 
whispered. 

"  Well,  mademoiselle,  you  have  made  a  splendid  success. 
1  only  regret  one  thing  about  it,  and  that  is  the  cruel  symbol 
which  you  have  hidden  in  your  masterpiece." 

As  she  saw  the  duke  before  her,  she  shuddered. 

"  Ah,  yes,  the  symbol,"  she  said,  lifting  her  face  towards 

235 


The  Nabob 

his  with  a  smile  of  discouragement ;  and  leaning  against  theS 
pedestal  of  the  large,  voluptuous  statue  near  which  they 
happened  to  be  standing,  with  the  closed  eyes  of  a  woman 
who  gives  or  abandons  herself,  she  murmured  low,  very 
low: 

"  Rabelais  lied,  as  all  men  lie.  The  truth  is  that  the 
fox  is  utterly  wearied,  that  he  is  at  the  end  of  his  breath 
and  his  courage,  ready  to  fall  into  the  ditch,  and  that  if  the 
greyhound  make  another  effort " 

Mora  started,  became  a  shade  paler,  all  the  blood  he 
had  in  his  body  rushing  back  to  his  heart.  Two  sombre 
flames  met  with  their  eyes,  two  rapid  words  were  exchanged 
by  lips  that  hardly  moved ;  then  the  duke  bowed  profoundly, 
and  walked  away  with  a  step  gay  and  light,  as  though  the 
gods  were  bearing  him. 

At  that  moment  there  was  in  the  palace  only  one  man 
as  happy  as  he,  and  that  was  the  Nabob.  Escorted  by  his 
friends,  he  occupied,  quite  filled  up,  the  principal  bay  with 
his  own  party  alone,  speaking  loudly,  gesticulating,  proud 
to  such  a  degree  that  he  looked  almost  handsome,  as 
though  by  dint  of  naive  and  long  contemplation  of  his  bust 
he  had  been  touched  by  something  of  the  splendid  idealiza- 
tion with  which  the  artist  had  haloed  the  vulgarity  of  his 
type.  The  head,  raised  to  the  three-quarters  position,  stand- 
ing freely  out  from  the  wide,  loose  collar,  drew  contradic- 
tory remarks  on  the  resemblance  from  the  passers-by ;  and 
the  name  of  Jansoulet,  so  many  times  repeated  by  the  elec- 
toral ballot-boxes,  was  repeated  over  again  now  by  the  pret- 
tiest mouths,  by  the  most  authoritative  voices,  in  Paris. 
Any  other  than  the  Nabob  would  have  been  embarrassed  to 
hear  uttered,  as  he  passed,  these  expressions  of  curiosity 
which  were  not  always  friendly.  But  the  platform,  the 
springing-board,  well  suited  that  nature  which  became 
bolder  under  the  fire  of  glances,  like  those  women  who  are 
beautiful  or  witty  only  in  society,  and  whom  the  least  admi- 
ration transfigures  and  completes. 

When  he  felt  this  delirious  joy  growing  calmer,  when 
he  thought  to  have  drunk  the  whole  of  its  proud  intoxica- 
tion, he  had  only  to  say  to  himself,  "  Deputy !     I  am  a 

2^6 


The  Exhibition 

Deputy ! "  And  the  triumphal  cup  foamed  once  more  to 
the  brim.  It  meant  the  embargo  raised  from  all  his  posses- 
sions, the  awakening  from  a  nightmare  that  had  lasted  two 
months,  the  puff  of  cool  wind  sweeping  away  all  his  anxie- 
ties, all  his  inquietudes,  even  to  the  affront  of  Saint-Ro- 
mans, very  heavy  though  that  was  in  his  memory. 

Deputy ! 

He  laughed  to  himself  as  he  thought  of  the  baron's  face 
when  he  learned  the  news,  of  the  stupefaction  of  the  Bey 
when  he  had  been  led  up  to  his  bust;  and  suddenly,  upon 
the  reflection  that  he  was  no  longer  merely  an  adventurer 
stuft'ed  with  gold,  exciting  the  stupid  admiration  of  the 
crowd,  as  might  an  enormous  rough  nugget  in  the  window 
of  a  money-changer,  but  that  people  saw  in  him,  as  he 
passed,  one  of  the  men  elected  by  the  will  of  the  nation, 
his  simple  and  mobile  face  grew  thoughtful  with  a  deliberate 
gravity,  there  suggested  themselves  to  him  projects  of  a 
career,  of  reform,  and  the  wish  to  profit  by  the  lessons  that 
had  been  latterly  taught  by  destiny.  Already,  remembering 
the  promise  which  he  had  given  to  de  Gery,  for  the  house- 
hold troop  that  wriggled  ignobly  at  his  heels,  he  made  ex- 
hibition of  certain  disdainful  coldnesses,  a  deliberate  pose 
of  authoritative  contradiction.  He  called  the  Marquis  de 
Bois  I'Hery  "  my  good  fellow,"  imposed  silence  very  sharp- 
ly on  the  governor,  whose  enthusiasm  was  becoming  scan- 
dalous, and  made  a  solemn  vow  to  himself  to  get  rid  as  soon 
as  possible  of  all  that  mendicant  and  compromising  Bohe- 
mian set,  when  he  should  have  a  good  occasion  to  begin  the 
process. 

Penetrating  the  crowd  which  surrounded  him,  Moessard 
— the  handsome  Moessard,  in  a  sky-blue  cravat,  pale  and 
bloated  like  a  white  embodiment  of  disease,  and  pinched  at 
the  waist  in  a  fine  frock-coat — seeing  that  the  Nabob,  after 
having  gone  twenty  times  round  the  hall  of  sculpture,  w^as 
making  for  the  door,  dashed  forward,  and  passing  his  arm 
through  his,  said : 

"  You  are  taking  me  with  you,  you  know." 

Especially  of  late,  since  the  time  of  the  election,  he  had 
assumed,  in  the  establishment  of  the  Place  Vendome,  an 

237 


The  Nabob 

authority  almost  equal  to  that  of  Monpavon,  but  more  im- 
pudent; for,  in  point  of  impudence,  the  Queen's  lover  was 
without  his  equal  on  the  pavement  that  stretches  from  the 
Rue  Drouot  to  the  Madeleine.  This  time  he  had  gone  too 
far.  The  muscular  arm  which  he  pressed  was  shaken  vio- 
lently, and  the  Nabob  answered  very  dryly : 

"  I  am  sorry,  mon  cher,  but  I  have  not  a  place  to  offer 
you." 

No  place  in  a  carriage  that  was  as  big  as  a  house,  and 
which  five  of  them  had  come  in ! 

Moessard  gazed  at  him  in  stupefaction. 

"  I  had,  however,  a  few  words  to  say  to  you  which  are 
very  urgent.  With  regard  to  the  subject  of  my  note — ^you 
received  it,  did  you  not  ?  " 

"  Certainly ;  and  M.  de  Gery  should  have  sent  you  a 
reply  this  very  morning.  What  you  ask  is  impossible. 
Twenty  thousand  francs!  Tonnerre  de  Dieu!  You  go  at  a 
fine  rate !  " 

"  Still,  it  seems  to  me  that  my  services — "  stammered 
the  beauty-man. 

"  Have  been  amply  paid  for.  That  is  how  it  seems  to  me 
also.  Two  hundred  thousand  francs  in  five  months!  We 
will  draw  the  line  there,  if  you  please.  Your  teeth  are  long, 
young  man ;  you  will  have  to  file  them  down  a  little." 

They  exchanged  these  words  as  they  walked,  pushed 
forward  by  the  surging  wave  of  the  people  going  out. 
Moessard  stopped: 

**  That  is  your  last  word  ?  " 

The  Nabob  hesitated  for  a  moment,  seized  by  a  presen- 
timent as  he  looked  at  that  pale,  evil  mouth;  then  he  re- 
membered the  promise  which  he  had  given  to  his  friend : 

"  That  is  my  last  word." 

"  Very  well !  We  shall  see,"  said  the  handsome  Moes- 
sard, whose  switch-cane  cut  the  air  with  the  hiss  of  a  viper; 
and,  turning  on  his  heel,  he  made  ofif  with  great  strides, 
like  a  man  who  is  expected  somewhere  on  very  urgent  busi- 
ness. 

Jansoulet  continued  his  triumphal  progress.  That  day 
much  more  would  have  been  required  to  upset  the  equi- 

238 


The  Exhibition 

librium  of  his  happiness ;  on  the  contrary,  he  felt  himself 
relieved  by  the  so-quickly  achieved  fulfilment  of  his  purpose. 

The  immense  vestibule  was  thronged  by  a  dense  crowd 
of  people  whom  the  approach  of  the  hour  of  closing  was 
bringing  out,  but  whom  one  of  those  sudden  showers,  which 
seem  inseparable  from  the  opening  of  the  Salon,  kept  wait- 
ing beneath  the  porch,  with  its  floor  beaten  down  and  sandy 
like  the  entrance  to  the  circus  where  the  young  dandies 
strut  about.  The  scene  that  met  the  eye  was  curious,  and 
very  Parisian. 

Outside,  great  rays  of  sunshine  traversing  the  rain,  at- 
taching to  its  limpid  beads  those  sharp  and  brilliant  blades 
which  justify  the  proverbial  saying,  "It  rains  halberds"; 
the  young  greenery  of  the  Champs-Elysees,  the  clumps  of 
rhododendrons,  rustling  and  wet,  the  carriages  ranged  in 
the  avenue,  the  mackintosh  capes  of  the  coachmen,  all  the 
splendid  harness-trappings  of  the  horses  receiving  from  the 
rain  and  the  sunbeams  an  added  richness  and  effect,  and 
blue  everywhere  looming  out,  the  blue  of  a  sky  which  is 
about  to  smile  in  the  interval  between  two  downpours. 

Within,  laughter,  gossip,  greetings,  impatience,  skirts 
held  up,  satins  bulging  out  above  the  delicate  folds  of  petti- 
coats and  the  soft  stripes  of  silk  stockings,  waves  of  frills, 
of  lace,  of  flounces  gathered  up  in  the  hands  of  their  wear- 
ers in  heavy,  terribly  frayed  bundles.  Then,  to  unite  the 
two  sides  of  the  picture,  these  prisoners  framed  in  by  the 
vaulted  ceiling  of  the  porch  and  in  the  gloom  of  its  shadow, 
with  the  immense  background  in  brilliant  light,  footmen 
running  beneath  umbrellas,  crying  out  names  of  coachmen 
or  of  masters,  broughams  coming  up  at  walking  pace,  and 
flustered  couples  getting  into  them. 

"  M.  Jansoulet's  carriage !  " 

Everybody  turned  round,  but,  as  one  knows,  that  did 
not  embarrass  him.  And  while  the  good  Nabob,  waiting 
for  his  suite,  stood  posing  a  little  amid  these  fashionable 
and  famous  people,  this  mixed  tout  Paris  which  was  there, 
with  its  every  face  bearing  a  well-known  name,  a  nervous 
and  well-gloved  hand  was  stretched  out  to  him,  and  the 
Due  de  IMora,  on  his  way  to  his  brougham,  threw  to  him, 

239 


The  Nabob 

as  he  passed,  these  words,  with  that  effusion  which  happi- 
ness gives  to  the  most  reserved  of  men : 

"  My  congratulations,  my  dear  deputy." 

It  was  said  in  a  loud  voice,  and  ever}'  one  could  hear  it : 
"  My  dear  deputy." 

There  is  in  the  life  of  all  men  one  golden  hour,  one 
luminous  peak,  whereon  all  that  they  can  hope  of  pros- 
perity, joy,  triumph,  waits  for  them  and  is  given  into  their 
hands.  The  summit  is  more  or  less  lofty,  more  or  less 
rugged  and  difficult  to  climb,  but  it  exists  equally  for  all, 
for  powerful  and  for  humble  alike.  Only,  like  that  longest 
day  of  the  year  on  which  the  sun  has  shone  with  its  utmost 
brilliance,  and  of  which  the  morrow  seems  a  first  step  to- 
wards winter,  this  summum  of  human  existences  is^but  a 
moment  given  to  be  enjoyed,  after  which  one  can  but  re- 
descend.  This  late  afternoon  of  the  first  of  May,  streaked 
with  rain  and  sunshine,  thou  must  forget  it  not,  poor  man — 
must  fix  forever  its  changing  brilliance  in  thy  memory.  It 
was  the  hour  of  thy  full  summer,  with  its  flowers  in  bloom, 
its  fruits  bending  their  golden  boughs,  its  ripe  harvests  of 
which  so  recklessly  thou  wast  plucking  the  corn.  The  star 
will  now  pale,  gradually  growing  more  remote  and  falling, 
incapable  ere  long  of  piercing  the  mournful  night  wherein 
thy  destiny  shall  be  accomplished. 


240 


XV 

MEMOIRS    OF    AN    OFFICE    PORTER — IN    THE    ANTECHAMBER 

Great  festivities  last  Saturday  in  the  Place  Vendome. 
In  honour  of  his  election,  M.  Bernard  Jansoulet,  the  new 
deputy  for  Corsica,  gave  a  magnificent  evening  party,  with 
municipal  guards  at  the  door,  illumination  of  the  entire 
mansion,  and  two  thousand  invitations  sent  out  to  fashion- 
able Paris. 

I  owed  to  the  distinction  of  my  manners,  to  the  sonority 
of  my  vocal  organ,  which  the  chairman  of  the  board  had 
had  occasion  to  notice  at  the  meetings  at  the  Territorial 
Bank,  the  opportunity  of  taking  part  in  this  sumptuous 
entertainment,  at  which,  for  three  hours,  standing  in  the  ves- 
tibule, amid  the  flowers  and  hangings,  clad  in  scarlet  and 
gold,  with  that  majesty  peculiar  to  persons  who  are  rather 
generously  built,  and  with  my  calves  exposed  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  I  launched,  like  a  cannon-ball,  through  the 
five  communicating  drawing-rooms,  the  name  of  each  guest, 
which  a  glittering  beadle  saluted  every  time  with  the 
"  bing  "  of  his  halberd  on  the  floor. 

How  many  the  curious  observations  which  that  evening 
again  I  was  able  to  make ;  how  many  the  pleasant  sallies, 
the  high-toned  jests  exchanged  among  the  servants  upon  all 
that  world  as  it  passed  by !  Not  with  the  vine-dressers  of 
Montbars  in  any  case  should  I  have  heard  such  drolleries. 
I  should  remark  that  the  worthy  M.  Barreau,  to  begin  with, 
had  caused  to  be  served  to  us  all  in  his  pantry,  filled  to 
the  ceiling  with  iced  drinks  and  provisions,  a  solid  lunch 
well  washed  down,  which  put  each  of  us  in  a  good  humour 
that  was  maintained  during  the  evening  by  the  glasses  of 
punch  and  champagne  pilfered  from  the  trays  when  dessert 
was  served. 

241 


The  Nabob 

The  masters,  indeed,  seemed  in  less  joyous  mood  than 
we.  So  early  as  nine  o'clock,  when  I  arrived  at  my  post, 
I  was  struck  by  the  uneasy  nervousness  apparent  on  the 
face  of  the  Nabob,  whom  I  saw  walking  with  M.  de  Gery 
through  the  lighted  and  empty  drawing-rooms,  talking 
quickly  and  making  large  gestures. 
.^       '  I  will  kill  him !  "  he  said  :  "  I  will  kill  him !  " 

The  other  endeavoured  to  soothe  him;  then  madame 
came  in,  and  the  subject  of  their  conversation  was  changed. 

A  mighty  fine  woman,  this  Levantine,  twice  as  stout 
as  I  am,  dazzling  to  look  at  with  her  tiara  of  diamonds,  the 
jewels  with  which  her  huge  white  shoulders  were  laden,  her 
back  as  round  as  her  bosom,  her  waist  compressed  within 
a  cuirass  of  green  gold,  which  was  continued  in  long  braids 
down  the  whole  length  of  her  stiff  skirt.  I  have  never  seen 
anything  so  imposing,  so  rich.  She  suggested  one  of  those 
beautiful  white  elephants  that  carry  towers  on  their  backs, 
of  which  we  read  in  books  of  travel.  When  she  walked, 
supporting  herself  with  difficulty  by  means  of  clinging  to  the 
furniture,  her  whole  body  quivered,  her  ornaments  clattered 
like  a  lot  of  old  iron.  Added  to  this,  a  small,  very  piercing 
voice,  and  a  fine  red  face  which  a  little  negro  boy  kept  cool- 
ing for  her  all  the  time  with  a  white  feather  fan  as  big  as  a 
peacock's  tail. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  this  indolent  and  retiring  per- 
son had  showed  herself  to  Parisian  society,  and  M.  Jan- 
soulet  seemed  very  happy  and  proud  that  she  had  been 
willing  to  preside  over  his  party ;  which  undertaking,  for 
that  matter,  did  not  cost  the  lady  much  trouble,  for,  leaving 
her  husband  to  receive  the  guests  in  the  first  drawing- 
room,  she  went  and  lay  down  on  the  divan  of  the  small 
Japanese  room,  wedged  between  two  piles  of  cushions, 
motionless,  so  that  you  could  see  her  from  a  distance 
right  in  the  background,  looking  like  an  idol,  beneath 
the  great  fan  which  her  negro  waved  regularly  like  a 
piece  of  clockwork.  These  foreign  women  possess  an  as- 
surance ! 

All  the  same,  the  Nabob's  irritation  had  struck  me,  and 
seeing  the  valet  de  chambre  go  by,  descending  the  staircase 

242 


In  the  Antechamber 

'four  steps  at  a  time,  I  caught  him  on  the  wing  and  whis- 
pered in  his  ear : 

"  What's  the  matter,  then,  with  your  governor,  M. 
Noel?" 

"  It  is  the  article  in  the  Messenger"  was  his  reply,  and 
I  had  to  give  up  the  idea  of  learning  anything  further  for 
the  moment,  the  loud  ringing  of  a  bell  announcing  that 
the  first  carriage  had  arrived,  followed  soon  by  a  crowd  of 
others. 

Wholly  absorbed  in  my  occupation,  careful  to  utter 
clearly  the  names  which  were  given  to  me,  and  to  make  them 
echo  from  salon  to  salon,  I  had  no  longer  a  thought  for 
anything  besides.  It  is  no  easy  business  to  announce  in  a 
proper  manner  persons  who  are  always  under  the  impres- 
sion that  their  name  must  be  known,  whisper  it  under  their 
breath  as  they  pass,  and  then  are  surprised  to  hear  you 
murder  it  with  the  finest  accent,  and  are  almost  angry  with 
you  on  account  of  those  entrances  which,  missing  fire  and 
greeted  with  little  smiles,  follow  upon  an  ill-made  announce- 
ment. At  M.  Jansoulet's,  what  made  the  work  still  more 
difficult  for  me  was  the  number  of  foreigners — Turks, 
Eg}'ptians,  Persians,  Tunisians.  I  say  nothing  of  the  Cor- 
sicans,  who  were  very  numerous  that  day,  because  during 
my  four  years  at  the  Territorial  I  have  become  accustomed 
to  the  pronunciation  of  those  high-sounding,  interminable 
names,  always  followed  by  that  of  the  locality :  "  Paganetti 
di  Porto  Vecchio,  Bastelica  di  Bonifacio,  Paianatchi  di 
Barbicagha." 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  me  to  modulate  these  Italian  sylla- 
bles, to  give  to  them  all  their  sonority,  and  I  saw  clearly, 
from  the  bewildered  airs  of  these  worthy  islanders,  how 
charmed  and  surprised  they  were  to  be  introduced  in  such 
a  manner  into  the  high  society  of  the  Continent.  But  with 
the  Turks,  these  pashas,  beys,  and  effendis,  I  had  much  more 
trouble,  and  I  must  have  happened  often  to  fall  on  a  wrong 
pronunciation ;  for  M.  Jansoulet,  on  two  separate  occasions, 
sent  word  to  me  to  pay  more  attention  to  the  names  that 
were  given  to  me,  and  especially  to  announce  in  a  more 
natural  manner.     This  remark,  uttered  aloud  before  the; 

243  Vol.  18-L 


The  Nabob 

whole  vestibule  with  a  certain  roughness,  annoyed  me  great- 
ly, and  prevented  me — shall  I  confess  it  ? — from  pitying  this 
rich  parvenu  when  I  learned,  in  the  course  of  the  evening, 
what  cruel  thorns  lay  concealed  in  his  bed  of  roses. 

From  half  past  ten  until  midnight  the  bell  was  con- 
stantly ringing,  carriages  rolling  up  under  the  portico, 
guests  succeeding  one  another,  deputies,  senators,  council- 
lors of  state,  municipal  councillors,  who  looked  much  rather 
as  though  they  were  attending  a  meeting  of  shareholders 
than  an  evening-party  of  society  people.  What  could  ac- 
count for  this?  I  had  not  succeeded  in  finding  an  explana- 
tion, but  a  remark  of  the  beadle  Nicklauss  opened  my  eyes. 

"  Do  you  notice,  M.  Passajon,"  said  that  worthy  hench- 
man, as  he  stood  opposite  me,  halberd  in  hand,  "  do  you 
notice  how  few  ladies  we  have  ? " 

That  was  it,  egad!  Nor  were  we  the  only  two  to  ob- 
serve the  fact.  As  each  new  arrival  made  his  entry  I  could 
hear  the  Nabob,  who  was  standing  near  the  door,  exclaim, 
with  consternation  in  his  thick  voice  like  that  of  a  Mar- 
seillais  with  a  cold  in  his  head : 

"What!  all  alone?" 

The  guest  would  murmur  his  excuses.  "  Mn-mn-mn 
— his  wife  a  trifle  indisposed.  Certainly  very  sorry."  Then 
another  would  arrive,  and  the  same  question  call  forth  the 
same  reply. 

By  its  constant  repetition  this  phrase  "All  alone?"  had 
eventually  become  a  jest  in  the  vestibule ;  lackeys  and  foot- 
men threw  it  at  each  other  whenever  there  entered  a  new 
guest  "  all  alone !  "  And  we  laughed  and  were  put  in  good- 
humour  by  it.  But  M.  Nicklauss,  with  his  great  experience 
of  the  world,  deemed  this  almost  general  abstention  of  the 
fair  sex  unnatural. 

"  It  must  be  the  article  in  the  Messenger"  said  he. 

Everybody  was  talking  about  it,  this  rascally  article, 
and  before  the  mirror  garlanded  with  flowers,  at  which 
each  guest  gave  a  finishing  touch  to  his  attire  before  enter- 
ing, I  surprised  fragments  of  whispered  conversation  such 
as  this: 

"You  have  read  it?" 

244 


In  the  Antechamber 

"  It  is  horrible !  " 

"  Do  you  think  the  thing  possible  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  idea.  In  any  case,  I  preferred  not  to  bring 
my  wife." 

"  I  have  done  the  same.  A  man  can  go  everywhere 
without  compromising  himself." 

''  Certainly.    While  a  woman " 

Then  they  would  go  in,  opera  hat  under  arm,  with  that 
conquering  air  of  married  men  when  they  are  unaccom- 
panied by  their  wives. 

What,  then,  could  there  be  in  this  newspaper,  this  terri- 
ble article,  to  menace  to  this  degree  the  influence  of  so 
wealthy  a  man?  Unfortunately,  my  duties  took  up  the 
whole  of  my  time.  I  could  go  down  neither  to  the  pantry 
nor  to  the  cloak-room  to  obtain  information,  to  chat  with 
the  coachmen  and  valets  and  lackeys  whom  I  could  see  stand- 
ing at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  amusing  themselves  by  jests 
upon  the  people  who  were  going  up.  What  will  you  ?  Mas- 
ters give  themselves  too  great  airs  also.  How  not  laugh 
to  see  go  by  with  an  insolent  manner  and  an  empty  stomach 
the  Marquis  and  the  Marquise  de  Bois  I'Hery,  after  all  that 
we  have  been  told  about  the  traffickings  of  Monsieur  and 
the  toilettes  of  Madame  ?  And  the  Jenkins  couple,  so  ten- 
der, so  united,  the  doctor  carefully  putting  a  lace  shawl  over 
his  lady's  shoulders  for  fear  she  should  take  cold  on  the 
staircase ;  she  herself  smiling  and  in  full  dress,  all  in  velvet, 
with  a  great  long  train,  leaning  on  her  husband's  arm  with 
an  air  that  seems  to  say,  "  How  happy  I  am !  "  when  I  hap- 
pen to  know  that,  in  fact,  since  the  death  of  the  Irishwoman, 
his  real,  legitimate  wife,  the  doctor  is  thinking  of  getting  rid 
of  the  old  woman  who  clings  to  him,  in  order  to  be  able  to 
marry  a  chit  of  a  girl,  and  that  the  old  woman  passes  her 
nights  in  lamentation,  and  in  spoiling  with  tears  whatever 
beauty  she  has  left. 

The  humorous  thing  is  that  not  one  of  these  people  had 
the  least  suspicion  of  the  rich  jests  and  je^rs  that  were 
spat  over  their  backs  as  they  passed,  not  a  notion  of  the 
filth  which  those  long  trains  drew  after  them  as  they  crossed 
the  carpet  of  the  antechamber,  and  they  all  would  look  at 

245 


The  Nabob 

you  so  disdainfully  that  it  was  enough  to  make  you  die  of 
laughing. 

The  two  ladies  whom  I  have  just  named,  the  wife  of 
the  governor,  a  little  Corsican,  to  whom  her  bushy  eyebrows, 
her  white  teeth,  and  her  shining  cheeks,  dark  beneath  the 
skin,  give  the  appearance  of  a  woman  of  Auvergne  with  a 
washed  face,  a  good  sort,  for  the  rest,  and  laughing  all  the 
time  except  when  her  husband  is  looking  at  other  women ; 
in  addition,  a  few  Levantines  with  tiaras  of  gold  or  pearls, 
less  perfect  specimens  of  the  type  than  our  own,  but  still  in 
a  similar  style,  wives  of  upholsterers,  jewellers,  regular 
tradesmen  of  the  establishment,  with  shoulders  as  large  as 
shop-fronts,  and  expensive  toilettes ;  finally,  sundry  ladies, 
wives  of  officials  of  the  Territorial,  in  sorry,  badly  creased 
dresses ;  these  constituted  the  sole  representation  of  the  fair 
sex  in  the  assembly,  some  thirty  ladies  lost  among  a  thou- 
sand black  coats — that  is  to  say,  practically  none  at  all. 
From  time  to  time  Cassagne,  Laporte,  Grandvarlet,  who 
were  serving  the  refreshments  in  trays,  stopped  to  inform 
us  of  what  was  passing  in  the  drawing-rooms. 

"  Ah,  my  boys,  if  you  could  see  it !  it  has  a  gloom,  a 
melancholy.  The  men  don't  stir  from  the  buffets.  The 
ladies  are  all  at  the  back,  seated  in  a  circle,  fanning  them- 
selves and  saying  nothing.  The  fat  old  lady  does  not  speak 
to  a  soul.  I  fancy  she  is  sulking.  You  should  see  the  look 
on  Monsieur!  Come,  pere  Passajon,  a  glass  of  Chateau- 
Larose ;  it  will  pick  you  up  a  bit." 

They  were  charmingly  kind  to  me,  all  these  young  peo- 
ple, and  took  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  doing  me  the  hon- 
ours of  the  cellar  so  often  and  so  copiously,  that  my  tongue 
commenced  to  become  heavy,  uncertain,  and  as  the  young 
folk  said  to  me  in  their  somewhat  free  language,  "  Uncle, 
you  are  babbling."  Happily  the  last  of  the  effendis  had 
just  arrived,  and  there  was  nobody  else  to  announce;  for  it 
was  in  vain  that  I  sought  to  shake  off  the  impression,  every 
time  I  advanced  between  the  curtains  to  send  a  name  hur- 
tling through  the  air  at  random,  I  saw  the  chandeliers  of 
the  drawing-rooms  revolving  with  hundreds  of  dazzling 
lights,  and  the  floors  slipping  away  with  sharp  and  perpen- 

246 


In  the  Antechamber 

dicular  slopes  like  Russian  mountains.  I  was  bound  to  get 
my  speech  mixed,  it  is  certain. 

The  cool  night-air,  sundry  ablutions  at  the  pump  in  the 
court-yard,  quickly  got  the  better  of  this  small  discomfort, 
and  when  I  entered  the  cloak-room  nothing  of  it  was  any 
longer  apparent.  I  found  a  numerous  and  gay  company 
collected  round  a  marquise  an  champagne,  of  which  all  my 
nieces,  wearing  their  best  dresses,  with  their  hair  puffed  out 
and  cravats  of  pink  ribbon,  took  their  full  share  notwith- 
standing exclamations  and  bewitching  little  grimaces  that 
deceived  nobody.  Naturally,  the  conversation  turned  on 
the  famous  article,  an  article  by  Moessard,  it  appears, 
full  of  frightful  revelations  with  regard  to  all  kinds  of  dis- 
honouring occupations  which  the  Nabob  was  alleged  to  have 
followed  fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago,  at  the  time  of  his  first 
sojourn  in  Paris. 

It  was  the  third  attack  of  the  kind  which  the  Messenger 
had  published  in  the  course  of  the  last  week,  and  that  rogue 
of  a  Moessard  had  the  spite  to  send  the  number  each  time 
done  up  in  a  packet  to  the  Place  Vendome. 

M.  Jansoulet  received  it  in  the  morning  with  his  choco- 
late ;  and  at  the  same  hour  his  friends  and  his  enemies — 
for  a  man  like  the  Nabob  could  be  regarded  with  indiffer- 
ence by  none — would  be  reading,  commenting,  tracing  for 
themselves  in  relation  to  him  a  line  of  conduct  designed  to 
save  them  from  becoming  compromised,!  To-day's  article 
must  be  supposed  to  have  struck  hard  all  the  same ;  for  Jan- 
soulet, the  coacLinan,  recounted  to  us  that  a  few  hours  ago, 
in  the  Bois,  his  master  had  not  exchanged  ten  greetings  in 
the  course  of  ten  drives  round  the  lake,  while  ordinarily  his 
hat  is  as  rarely  on  his  head  as  a  sovereign's  when  he  takes 
the  air.  Then,  when  they  got  back,  there  was  another 
trouble.  The  three  boys  had  just  arrived  at  the  house,  all 
in  tears  and  dismay,  brought  home  from  the  College  Bour- 
daloue  by  a  worthy  father  in  the  interest  of  the  poor  little 
fellows  themselves,  who  had  received  a  temporary  leave  of 
absence  in  order  to  spare  them  from  hearing  in  the  parlour 
or  the  playground  any  unkind  story  or  painful  allusion. 
Thereupon  the  Nabob  flew  into  a  terrible  passion,  which 

247 


The  Nabob 

caused  him  to  destroy  a  service  of  porcelain,  and  it  appears 
that,  had  it  not  been  for  M.  de  Gery,  he  would  have  rushed 
off  at  once  to  punch  Moessard's  head. 

"  And  he  would  have  done  well,"  remarked  M.  Noel, 
entering  at  these  last  words,  very  much  excited.  "  There 
is  not  a  line  of  truth  in  that  rascal's  article.  My  master 
had  never  been  in  Paris  before  last  year.  From  Tunis  to 
Marseilles,  from  Marseilles  to  Tunis,  those  were  his  only 
journeys.  But  this  knave  of  a  journalist  is  taking  his  re- 
venge because  we  refused  him  twenty  thousand  francs." 
■  "  There  you  acted  very  unwisely,"  observed  M.  Francis 
upon  this — Monpavon's  Francis,  Monpavon  the  old  beau 
whose  solitary  tooth  shakes  about  in  the  centre  of  his  mouth 
at  every  word  he  says,  but  whom  the  young  ladies  regard 
with  a  favourable  eye  all  the  same  on  account  of  his  fine 
manners.  "  Yes,  you  were  unwise.  One  must  know  how 
to  conciliate  people,  so  long  as  they  are  in  a  position  to  be 
useful  to  us  or  to  injure  us.  Your  Nabob  has  turned  his 
back  too  quickly  upon  his  friends  after  his  success ;  and  be- 
tween you  and  me,  mon  cher,  he  is  not  sufficiently  firmly 
established  to  be  able  to  disregard  attacks  of  this  kind." 

I  thought  myself  able  here  to  put  in  a  word  in  my  turn : 

"  That  is  true  enough,  M.  Noel,  your  governor  is  no 
longer  the  same  since  his  election.  He  has  adopted  a  tone 
and  manners  which  I  can  hardly  but  describe  as  reprehen- 
sible. The  day  before  yesterday,  at  the  Territorial,  he  raised 
a  commotion  which  you  can  hardly  imagine.  He  was  heard 
to  exclaim  before  the  whole  board :  '  You  have  lied  to  me ; 
you  have  robbed  me,  and  made  me  a  robber  as  much  as 
yourselves.  Show  me  your  books,  you  set  of  rogues ! '  If 
he  has  treated  Moessard  in  the  same  sort  of  fashion,  I  am 
not  surprised  any  longer  that  the  latter  should  be  taking  his 
revenge  in  his  newspaper." 

"  But  what  does  this  article  say  ?  "  asked  M.  Barreau. 
"  Who  is  present  that  has  read  it  ?  " 

Nobody  answered.  Several  had  tried  to  buy  it,  but  in 
Paris  scandal  sells  like  bread.  At  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning 
there  was  not  a  single  copy  of  the  Messenger  left  in  the 
office.    Then  it  occurred  to  one  of  my  nieces — a  sharp  girl, 

248 


In  the.  Antechamber 

if  ever  there  was  one — to  look  in  the  pocket  of  one  of  the 
numerous  overcoats  in  the  cloak-room,  folded  carefully  in 
large  pigeon-holes.     At  the  first  which  she  examined : 

"  Here  it  is !  "  exclaimed  the  charming  child  with  an  air 
of  triumph,  as  she  drew  out  a  Messenger  crumpled  in  the 
folding  like  a  paper  that  has  just  been  read. 

"  Here  is  another !  "  cried  Tom  Bois  I'Hery,  who  was 
making  a  search  on  his  own  account.  A  third  overcoat, 
a  third  Messenger.  And  in  every  one  the  same  thing : 
pushed  down  to  the  bottom  of  a  pocket,  or  with  its  title- 
page  protruding,  the  newspaper  was  everywhere,  just  as  its 
article  must  have  been  in  every  memory ;  and  one  could 
imagine  the  Nabob  up  above  exchanging  polite  phrases  with 
his  guests,  while  they  could  have  reeled  off  by  heart  the 
atrocious  things  that  had  been  printed  about  him.  We  all 
laughed  much  at  this  idea ;  but  we  were  anxious  to  make 
acquaintance  in  our  own  turn  with  this  curious  article. 

"  Come,  pere  Passajon,  read  it  aloud  to  us." 

It  was  the  general  desire,  and  I  assented. 

I  don't  know  if  you  are  like  me,  but  when  I  read  aloud 
I  gargle  my  throat  with  my  voice ;  I  introduce  modulations 
and  flourishes  to  such  an  extent  that  I  understand  nothing 
of  what  I  am  saying,  like  those  singers  to  whom  the  sense 
of  the  words  matters  little,  provided  the  notes  be  true.  The 
thing  was  entitled  "  The  Boat  of  Flowers  " — a  sufficiently 
complicated  story,  with  Chinese  names,  about  a  very  rich 
mandarin,  who  had  at  one  time  in  the  past  kept  a  "  boat 
of  flowers  "  moored  quite  at  the  far  end  of  the  town  near  a 
barrier  frequented  by  the  soldiers.  At  the  end  of  the  article 
we  were  no  farther  on  than  at  the  beginning.  We  tried 
certainly  to  wink  at  each  other,  to  pretend  to  be  clever ;  but, 
frankly,  we  had  no  reason.  A  veritable  puzzle  without  solu- 
tion ;  and  we  should  still  be  stuck  fast  at  it  if  old  Francis, 
a  regular  rascal  who  knows  everything,  had  not  explained 
to  us  that  this  meeting  place  of  the  soldiers  must  stand  for 
the  Military  School,  and  that  the  "  boat  of  flowers  "  did  not 
bear  so  pretty  a  name  as  that  in  good  French.  And  this 
name,  he  said  it  aloud  notwithstanding  the  presence  of  the 
ladies.     There  was  an  explosion  of  cries,  of  "  Ah's !  "  and 

249 


The  Nabob 

"  Oh's !  "  some  saying,  "  I  suspected  it !  "  others,  "  It  is  im- 
possible !  " 

"  Pardon  me,"  added  Francis,  formerly  a  trumpeter  in 
the  Ninth  Lancers — the  regiment  of  Mora  and  of  Monpavon 
— "  pardon  me.  Twenty  years  ago,  during  the  last  half 
year  of  my  service,  I  was  in  barracks  in  the  Military  School, 
and  I  remember  very  well  that  near  the  fortifications  there 
was  a  dirty  dancing-hall  known  as  the  Jansoulet  Rooms, 
with  a  little  furnished  flat  above  and  bedrooms  at  twopence- 
halfpenny  the  hour,  to  which  one  could  retire  between  two 
quadrilles." 

"  You  are  an  infamous  liar !  "  said  M.  Noel,  beside  him- 
self with  rage — "  a  thief  and  a  liar  like  your  master.  Jan- 
soulet has  never  been  in  Paris  before  now." 

Francis  was  seated  a  little  outside  our  circle  engaged  in 
sipping  something  sweet,  because  champagne  has  a  bad 
effect  on  his  nerves  and  because,  too,  it  is  not  a  sufficiently 
distinguished  beverage  for  him.  He  rose  gravely,  without 
putting  down  his  glass,  and,  advancing  towards  M.  Noel, 
said  to  him  very  quietly : 

"  You  are  wanting  in  manners,  mon  cher.  The  other 
evening  I  found  your  tone  coarse  and  unseemly.  To  insult 
people  serves  no  good  purpose,  especially  in  this  case,  since  I 
happen  to  have  been  an  assistant  to  a  fencing-master,  and, 
if  matters  were  carried  further  between  us,  could  put  a 
couple  of  inches  of  steel  into  whatever  part  of  your  body  I 
might  choose.  But  I  am  good-natured.  Instead  of  a 
sword-thrust,  I  prefer  to  give  you  a  piece  of  advice,  which 
your  master  will  do  well  to  follow.  This  is  what  I  should 
do  in  your  place :  I  should  go  and  find  Moessard,  and  I 
should  buy  him,  without  quibbling  about  price.  Hemer- 
lingue  has  given  him  twenty  thousand  francs  to  speak;  I 
would  ofifer  him  thirty  thousand  to  hold  his  tongue." 

"  Never !  never !  "  vociferated  M.  Noel.  "  I  should 
rather  go  and  knock  the  rascally  brigand's  head  off." 

"  You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  Whether  the  calum- 
ny be  true  or  false,  you  have  seen  the  effect  of  it  this  even- 
ing. This  is  a  sample  of  the  pleasures  in  store  for  you. 
What  can  you  expect,  mon  cher?    You  have  thrown  away 

250 


In  the  Antechamber 

your  cnitches  too  soon,  and  thought  to  walk  by  yourselves. 
That  is  all  very  well  when  one  is  well  set  up  and  firm  on  the 
legs;  but  when  one  has  not  a  very  solid  footing,  and  has 
also  the  misfortune  to  feel  Hemerlingue  at  his  heels,  it  is  a 
bad  business.  Besides,  your  master  is  beginning  to  be  short 
of  money ;  he  has  given  notes  of  hand  to  old  Schwalbach — 
and  don't  talk  to  me  of  a  Nabob  who  gives  notes  of  hand.  I 
know  well  that  you  have  millions  over  yonder,  but  your 
election  must  be  declared  valid  before  you  can  touch  them ; 
a  few  more  articles  like  to-day's,  and  I  answer  for  it  that  you 
will  not  secure  that  declaration.  You  set  yourselves  up  to 
struggle  against  Paris,  mon  bon,  but  you  are  not  big  enough 
for  such  a  match ;  you  know  nothing  about  it.  Here  we  are 
not  in  the  East,  and  if  we  do  not  wring  the  necks  of  people 
who  displease  us,  if  we  do  not  throw  them  into  the  water  in 
a  sack,  w^e  have  other  methods  of  effecting  their  disappear- 
ance. Noel,  let  your  niaster  take  care.  One  of  these  morn- 
ings Paris  will  swallow  him  as  I  swallow  this  plum,  with- 
out spitting  out  either  stone  or  skin." 

He  was  terrible,  this  old  man,  and  notwithstanding  the 
paint  on  his  face,  I  felt  a  certain  respect  for  him.  While 
he  was  speaking,  we  could  hear  the  music  upstairs,  and  the 
horses  of  the  municipal  guards  shaking  their  curb-chains  in 
the  square.  From  without,  our  festivities  must  have  seemed 
very  brilliant,  all  lighted  up  by  their  thousands  of  candles, 
and  with  the  great  portico  illuminated.  And  when  one  re- 
flected that  ruin  perhaps  lay  beneath  it  all !  We  sat  there 
in  the  vestibule  like  rats  that  hold  counsel  with  each  other  at 
the  bottom  of  a  ship's  hold,  when  the  vessel  is  beginning  to 
leak  and  before  the  crew  has  found  it  out,  and  I  saw  clearly 
that  all  the  lackeys  and  chambermaids  would  not  be  long 
in  decamping  at  the  first  note  of  alarm.  Could  such  a  catas- 
trophe indeed  be  possible?  And  in  that  case  what  would 
become  of  me,  and  the  Territorial,  and  the  money  I  had 
advanced,  and  the  arrears  due  to  me? 

That  Francis  has  left  me  with  a  cold  shudder  down  mv 
lack. 


251 


'  XVI 

'' 'K   PUBLIC    MAN 

The  bright  warmth  of  a  clear  May  afternoon  heated  the: 
lofty  casement  windows  of  the  Mora  mansion  to  the  tem- 
perature of  a  greenhouse.  The  blue  silk  curtains  were  vis- 
ible from  outside  through  the  branches  of  the  trees,  and 
the  wide  terraces,  where  exotic  flowers  were  planted  out  of 
doors  for  the  first  time  of  the  season,  ran  in  borders  along 
the  whole  length  of  the  quay.  The  raking  of  the  garden 
paths  traced  the  light  footprints  of  summer  in  the  sand,  while 
the  soft  fall  of  the  water  from  the  hoses  on  the  lawns  was  its 
refreshing  song. 

All  the  luxury  of  the  princely  residence  lay  sunning 
itself  in  the  soft  warmth  of  the  temperature,  borrowing  a 
beauty  from  the  silence,  the  repose  of  this  noontide  hour, 
the  only  hour  when  the  roll  of  carriages  was  not  to  be 
heard  under  the  arches,  nor  the  banging  of  the  great  doors 
of  the  antechamber,  and  that  perpetual  vibration  which  the 
ringing  of  bells  upon  arrivals  or  departures  sent  coursing 
through  the  very  ivy  on  the  walls ;  the  feverish  pulse  of 
the  life  of  a  fashionable  house.  It  was  known  that  up  to 
three  o'clock  the  duke  held  his  reception  at  the  Ministry, 
and  that  the  duchess,  a  Swede  still  benumbed  by  the  snows 
of  Stockholm,  had  hardly  issued  from  her  drowsy  curtains ; 
consequently  nobody  came  to  call,  neither  visitors  nor  peti- 
tioners, and  only  the  footmen,  perched  like  flamingoes  on 
the  deserted  flight  of  steps  in  front  of  the  house,  gave  the 
place  a  touch  of  animation  with  the  slim  shadows  of  their 
long  legs  and  their  yawning  weariness  of  idlers. 

As  an  exception,  however,  that  day  Jenkins's  brougham 
was  standing  waiting  in  a  corner  of  the  court-yard.  The 
duke,  unwell  since  the  previous  evening,  had  felt  worse 

252 


A  Public  Man 

after  leaving  the  breakfast-table,  and  in  all  haste  had  sent 
for  the  man  of  the  pearls  in  order  to  question  him  on  his 
singular  condition.  Pain  nowhere,  sleep  and  appetite  as 
usual ;  only  an  inconceivable  lassitude,  and  a  sense  of  terrible 
chill  which  nothing  could  dissipate.  Thus  at  that  moment, 
notwithstanding  the  brilliant  spring  sunshine  which  flooded 
his  chamber  and  almost  extinguished  the  fire  flaming  in  the 
grate,  the  duke  was  shivering  beneath  his  furs,  surrounded 
by  screens ;  and  while  signing  papers  for  an  attache  of  his 
cabinet  on  a  low  table  of  gold  lacquer,  placed  so  near  to 
the  fire  that  it  frizzled,  he  kept  holding  out  his  numb  fingers 
every  moment  towards  the  blaze,  which  might  have  burned 
the  skin  without  restoring  circulation. 

Was  it  anxiety  caused  by  the  indisposition  of  his  illus- 
trious client?  Jenkins  appeared  nervous,  disquieted,  walked 
backward  and  forward  with  long  strides  over  the  carpet, 
hunting  about  right  and  left,  seeking  in  the  air  something 
which  he  believed  to  be  present,  a  subtle  and  intangible 
something  like  the  trace  of  a  perfume  or  the  invisible  track 
left  by  a  bird  in  its  flight.  You  heard  the  crackling  of  the 
wood  in  the  fireplace,  the  rustle  of  papers  hurriedly  turned 
over,  the  indolent  voice  of  the  duke  indicating  in  a  sentence, 
always  precise  and  clear,  a  reply  to  a  letter  of  four  pages, 
and  the  respectful  monosyllables  of  the  attache — "  Yes, 
M.  le  Ministre,"  "  No,  M.  le  Ministre  "  ;  then  the  scraping  of 
a  rebellious  and  heavy  pen.  Out  of  doors  the  swallows  were 
twittering  merrily  over  the  water,  the  sound  of  a  clarinet  was 
wafted  from  somewhere  near  the  bridges. 

"  It  is  impossible,"  suddenly  said  the  INIinister  of  State, 
rising.  "  Take  that  away,  Lartigues ;  you  must  return  to- 
morrow. I  cannot  write.  I  am  too  cold.  See,  doctor ;  feel 
my  hands — one  would  think  that  they  had  just  come  out 
of  a  pail  of  iced  water.  For  the  last  two  days  my  whole 
body  has  been  the  same.  Isn't  it  too  absurd,  in  this 
weather !  " 

"  I  am  not  surprised,"  muttered  the  Irishman,  in  a  sullen, 
curt  tone,  rarely  heard  from  that  honeyed  personage. 

The  door  had  closed  upon  the  young  attache,  bearing 
off  his  papers  with   majestic   dignity,  but  very   happy,   I 

253 


The  Nabob 

imagine,  to  feel  himself  free  and  to  be  able  to  stroll  for  an 
hour  or  two,  before  returning  to  the  Ministry,  in  the  Tuile- 
ries  gardens,  full  of  spring  frocks  and  pretty  girls  sitting 
near  the  still  empty  chairs  round  the  band,  under  the  chest- 
nut-trees in  flower,  through  which  from  root  to  summit 
there  ran  the  great  thrill  of  the  month  when  nests  are  built 
The  attache  was  certainly  not  frozen. 

Jenkins,  silently,  examined  his  patient,  sounded  him  and 
tapped  his  chest ;  then,  in  the  same  rough  tone  which  might 
be  explained  by  his  anxious  devotion,  the  annoyance  of  the 
doctor  who  sees  his  orders  transgressed : 

"  Ah,  now,  my  dear  duke,  what  sort  of  life  have  you 
been  living  lately  ?  " 

He  knew  from  the  gossip  of  the  antechamber — in  the 
case  of  his  regular  clients  the  doctor  did  not  disdain  this — 
he  knew  that  the  duke  had  a  new  favourite,  that  this  caprice 
of  recent  date  possessed  him,  excited  him  in  an  extraordinary 
measure,  and  the  fact,  taken  together  with  other  observa- 
tions made  elsewhere,  had  implanted  in  Jenkins's  mind  a 
suspicion,  a  mad  desire  to  know  the  name  of  this  new  mis- 
tress. It  was  this  that  he  was  trying  to  read  on  the  pale  face 
of  his  patient,  attempting  to  fathom  the  depth  of  his  thoughts 
rather  than  the  origin  of  his  malady.  But  he  had  to  deal 
with  one  of  those  faces  which  are  hermetically  sealed,  like 
those  little  coffers  with  a  secret  spring  which  hold  jewels  and 
women's  letters,  one  of  those  discreet  natures  closed  by  a 
cold,  blue  eye,  a  glance  of  steel  by  which  the  most  astute 
perspicacity  may  be  baffled. 

"  You  are  mistaken,  doctor,"  replied  his  excellency 
tranquilly.    "  I  have  made  no  change  in  my  habits." 

"  Very  well,  M.  le  Due,  you  have  done  wrong,"  re- 
marked the  Irishman  abruptly,  furious  at  having  made  no 
discovery. 

And  then,  feeling  that  he  was  going  too  far,  he  gave 
vent  to  his  bad  temper  and  to  the  severity  of  his  diagnosis 
in  words  which  were  a  tissue  of  banalities  and  axioms. 
One  ought  to  take  care.  Medicine  was  not  magic.  The 
power  of  the  Jenkins  pearls  was  limited  by  human  strength, 
by  the  necessities  of  age,  by  the  resources  of  nature,  which^ 

254 


A  Public  Man 

unfortunately,  are  not  inexhaustible.  The  duke  interrupted 
him  in  an  irritable  tone : 

"  Come,  Jenkins,  you  know  very  well  that  I  don't  like 
phrases.  I  am  not  all  right,  then  ?  "What  is  the  matter  with 
me  ?    What  is  the  reason  of  this  chilliness  ?  " 

"  It  is  anaemia,  exhaustion — a  sinking  of  the  oil  in  the 
lamp." 

"What  must  I  do?" 

"  Nothing.  An  absolute  rest.  Eat,  sleep,  nothing  be- 
sides. If  you  could  go  and  spend  a  few  weeks  at  Grand- 
bois." 

Mora  shrugged  his  shoulders: 

"  And  the  Chamber — and  the  Council — and —  ?  Non- 
sense !  how  is  it  possible  ?  " 

"  In  any  case,  M.  le  Due,  you  must  put  the  brake  on ; 
as  somebody  said,  renounce  absolutely " 

Jenkins  was  interrupted  by  the  entry  of  the  servant  on 
duty,  who,  discreetly,  on  tiptoe,  like  a  dancing-master,  came 
in  to  deliver  a  letter  and  a  card  to  the  Minister  of  State, 
who  was  still  shivering  before  the  fire.  At  the  sight  of  that 
satin-gray  envelope  of  a  peculiar  shape  the  Irishman  start- 
ed involuntarily,  while  the  duke,  having  opened  and  glanced 
over  his  letter,  rose  with  new  vigour,  his  cheeks  wearing 
that  light  flush  of  artificial  health  which  all  the  heat  of  the 
stove  had  not  been  able  to  bring  there. 

"  My  dear  doctor,  I  must  at  any  price " 

The  servant  still  stood  waiting. 

"  What  is  it  ?  Ah,  yes  ;  this  card.  Take  the  visitor  to  the 
gallery.    I  shall  be  there  directly." 

The  gallery  of  the  Duke  de  Mora,  open  to  visitors  twice 
a  week,  was  for  himself,  as  it  were,  a  neutral  ground,  a 
public  place  where  he  could  see  any  one  without  binding  or 
compromising  himself  in  any  way.  Then,  the  servant  hav- 
ing withdrawn : 

"  Jenkins,  inon  hon,  you  have  already  worked  miracles 
for  me.  I  ask  you  for  one  more.  Double  the  dose  of  my 
pearls ;  find  something,  whatever  you  will.  But  I  must  be 
feeling  young  by  Sunday.  You  understand  me,  altogether 
young." 

256 


The  Nabob 

And  on  the  little  letter  in  his  hand,  his  fingers,  warm 
once  more  and  feverish,  clinched  themselves  with  a  thrill 
of  eager  desire. 

"  Take  care,  M.  le  Due,"  said  Jenkins,  very  pale  and 
with  compressed  lips.  "  I  have  no  wish  to  alarm  you  un- 
necessarily with  regard  to  the  feeble  state  of  your  health, 

but  it  becomes  my  duty " 

Mora  gave  a  smile  of  pretty  arrogance: 
"  Your  duty  and  my  pleasure  are  two  separate  things, 
my  worthy  friend.     Let  me  burn  the  candle  at  both  ends, 
if  it  amuses  me.    I  have  never  had  so  fine  an  opportunity  as 
this  time." 
He  started: 
"  The  duchess !  " 

A  door  concealed  behind  a  curtain  had  just  opened  to 
give  passage  to  a  merry  little  head  with  fair  curls  in  dis- 
order, quite  fairy-like  amid  the  laces  and  frills  of  a  dress- 
ing-jacket worthy  of  a  princess  : 

"  What  do  I  hear  ?    You  have  not  gone  out  ?     But  do 
scold  him,  doctor.    He  is  wrong,  isn't  he,  to  have  so  many 
fancies  about  himself  ?    Look  at  him — a  picture  of  health !  " 
"  There — you  see,"  said  the  duke,  laughing,  to  the  Irish- 
man.   "  You  will  not  come  in,  duchess  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  going  to  carry  you  off,  on  the  contrary.  My 
uncle  d'Estaing  has  sent  me  a  cage  full  of  tropical  birds. 
I  want  to  show  them  to  you.  Wonderful  creatures,  of  all 
colours,  with  little  eyes  like  black  pearls.  And  so  sensitive 
to  cold — nearly  as  much  so  as  you  are." 

"  Let  us  go  and  have  a  look  at  them,"  said  the  minister. 
"  Wait  for  me,  Jenkins.     I  shall  be  back  in  a  moment." 

Then,  noticing  that  he  still  had  his  letter  in  his  hand, 
he  threw  it  carelessly  into  the  drawer  of  the  little  table  at 
which  he  had  been  signing  papers,  and  left  the  room  behind 
the  duchess,  with  the  fine  coolness  of  a  husband  accustomed 
to  these  changes  of  situation. 

What  prodigious  mechanic,  what  incomparable  manufac- 
turer of  toys,  must  it  have  been  who  succeeded  in  endowing 
the  human  mask  with  its  suppleness,  its  marvellous  elas- 
ticity!   How  interesting  to  observe  the  face  of  this  great 

256 


A  Public  Man 

seigneur  surprised  in  the  very  planning  of  his  adultery,  with 
cheeks  flushed  in  the  anticipation  of  promised  delights,  calm- 
ing down  at  a  moment's  notice  into  the  serenity  of  conjugal 
tenderness;  how  fine  the  devout  obsequiousness,  the  pater- 
nal smile,  after  the  Franklin  model,  of  Jenkins,  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  duchess,  giving  place  suddenly,  when  he  found 
himself  alone,  to  a  savage  expression  of  anger  and  hatred, 
the  pallor  of  a  criminal,  the  pallor  of  a  Castaing  or  of  a 
Lapommerais  hatching  his  sinister  treasons. 

One  rapid  glance  towards  each  of  the  two  doors,  and  he 
stood  before  the  drawer  full  of  precious  papers,  the  little 
gold  key  still  remaining  in  the  lock  with  an  arrogant  care- 
lessness, which  seemed  to  say,  "  No  one  will  dare." 

Jenkins  dared. 

The  letter  lay  there,  the  first  on  a  pile  of  others.  The 
grain  of  the  paper,  an  address  of  three  words  dashed  off  in 
a  simple,  bold  handwriting,  and  then  the  perfume,  that  in- 
toxicating, suggestive  perfume,  the  very  breath  of  her  divine 
lips —  It  was  true,  then,  his  jealous  love  had  not  deceived 
him,  nor  the  embarrassment  she  had  shown  in  his  presence 
for  some  time  past,  nor  the  secretive  and  rejuvenated  airs  of 
Constance,  nor  those  bouquets  magnificently  blooming  in 
the  studio  as  in  the  shadow  of  an  intrigue.  That  indomitable 
pride  had  surrendered,  then,  at  last?  But  in  that  case,  why 
not  to  him,  Jenkins  ?  To  him  who  had  loved  her  for  so  long 
— always ;  who  was  ten  years  younger  than  the  other  man, 
and  who  certainly  was  troubled  with  no  cold  shiverings! 
All  these  thoughts  passed  through  his  head  like  arrows  shot 
from  a  tireless  bow.  And,  stabbed  through  and  through, 
torn  to  pieces,  his  eyes  blinded,  he  stood  there  looking  at 
the  little  satiny  and  cold  envelope  which  he  did  not  dare 
open  for  fear  of  dismissing  a  final  doubt,  when  the  rustling 
of  a  curtain  warned  him  that  some  one  had  just  come  in.  He 
threw  the  letter  back  quickly,  and  closed  the  wonderfully 
adjusted  drawer  of  the  lacquered  table. 

"  Ah!  it  is  you,  Jansoulet.    How  is  it  you  are  here?  " 

"  His  excellency  told  me  to  come  and  wait  for  him  in 
his  room,"  replied  the  Nabob,  very  proud  of  being  thus 
introduced  into  the  privacy  of  the  apartments,  at  an  hour, 

257 


The  Nabob 

Especially,  when  visitors  were  not  generally  received.  As 
a  fact,  the  duke  was  beginning  to  show  a  real  liking  for 
this  savage,  for  several  reasons :  to  begin  with,  he  Hked 
audacious  people,  adventurers  who  followed  their  lucky  star. 
Was  he  not  one  of  them  himself?  Then,  the  Nabob  amused 
him ;  his  accent,  his  frank  manners,  his  rather  coarse  and 
impudent  flattery,  were  a  change  for  him  from  the  eternal 
conventionality  of  his  surroundings,  from  that  scourge  of  ad- 
ministrative and  court  life  which  he  held  in  horror — the  set 
speech — in  such  great  horror  that  he  never  finished  a  sen- 
tence which  he  had  begun.  The  Nabob  had  an  unforeseen 
way  of  finishing  his  which  was  sometimes  full  of  surprises. 
A  fine  gambler  as  well,  losing  games  of  karte  at  five  thou- 
sand francs  the  fish  without  flinching.  And  so  convenient 
when  one  wanted  to  get  rid  of  a  picture,  always  ready  to  buy, 
no  matter  at  what  price.  To  these  motives  of  condescend- 
ing kindness  there  had  come  to  be  joined  of  late  a  sentiment 
of  pity  and  indignation  in  face  of  the  tenacity  with  which 
the  unfortunate  man  was  being  persecuted,  the  cowardly 
and  merciless  war  so  ably  managed,  that  public  opinion, 
always  credulous  and  with  neck  outstretched  to  see  which 
way  the  wind  is  blowing,  was  beginning  to  be  seriously 
influenced.  One  must  do  to  Mora  the  justice  of  admitting 
that  he  was  no  follower  of  the  crowd.  When  he  had  seen 
in  a  corner  of  the  gallery  the  simple  but  rather  piteous  and 
discomfited  face  of  the  Nabob,  he  had  thought  it  cowardly 
to  receive  him  there,  and  had  sent  him  up  to  his  private 
room. 

Jenkins  and  Jansoulet,  sufficiently  embarrassed  by  each 
other's  presence,  exchanged  a  few  commonplace  words. 
Their  great  friendship  had  recently  cooled,  Jansoulet  having 
refused  point-blank  all  further  subsidies  to  the  Bethlehem 
Society,  leaving  the  business  on  the  Irishman's  hands,  who 
was  furious  at  this  defection,  and  much  more  furious  still 
at  this  moment  because  he  had  not  been  able  to  open 
Felicia's  letter  before  the  arrival  of  the  intruder.  The 
Nabob,  on  his  side,  was  asking  himself  whether  the  doctor 
was  going  to  be  present  at  the  conversation  which  he  wished 
to  have  with  the  duke  on  the  subject  of  the  infamous  insinu- 

258 


A  Public  Man 

ations  with  which  the  Messenger  was  pursuing  him ;  anxious 
also  to  know  whether  these  calumnies  might  not  have  pro- 
duced a  coolness  in  that  sovereign  good-will  which  was  so 
necessary  to  him  at  the  moment  of  the  verification  of  his 
election.  The  greeting  which  he  had  received  in  the  gallery- 
had  half  reassured  him  on  this  point ;  he  was  entirely  satis- 
fied when  the  duke  entered  and  came  towards  him  with  out- 
stretched hand : 

"  Well,  my  poor  Jansoulet,  I  hope  Paris  is  making  you 
pay  dearly  enough  for  your  welcome.  What  brawling  and 
hate  and  spite  one  finds !  " 

"  Ah,  M.  le  Due,  if  you  knew " 

"  I  know.  I  have  read  it,"  said  the  minister,  moving 
closer  to  the  fire. 

"  I  sincerely  hope  that  your  excellency  does  not  believe 
these  infamies.    Besides,  I  have  here — I  bring  the  proof." 

With  his  strong  hairy  hands,  trembling  with  emotion,  he 
hunted  among  the  papers  in  an  enormous  shagreen  port- 
folio which  he  had  under  his  arm. 

"  Never  mind  that — never  mind.  I  am  acquainted  witK 
the  whole  afifair.  I  know  that,  wilfully  or  not,  they  have 
mixed  you  up  with  another  person,  whom  family  considera- 
tions  " 

The  duke  could  not  restrain  a  smile  at  the  bewilderment 
of  the  Nabob,  stupefied  to  find  him  so  well  informed. 

"  A  Minister  of  State  has  to  know  everything.  But 
don't  worry.  Your  election  will  be  declared  valid  all  the 
same.    And  once  declared  valid " 

Jansoulet  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Ah,  M.  le  Due,  how  it  cheers  me  to  hear  you  speak 
thus !  I  was  beginning  to  lose  all  confidence.  My  enemies 
are  so  powerful.  And  a  piece  of  bad  luck  into  the  bargain. 
Do  you  know  that  it  is  Le  Merquier  himself  who  is  charged 
with  the  report  on  my  election?" 

''  Le  Merquier  ?    The  devil !  " 

"  Yes,  Le  Merquier,  Hemerlingue's  agent,  the  dirty 
hypocrite  who  converted  the  baroness,  no  doubt  because  his 
religion  forbade  him  to  have  a  Mohammedan  for  a  mis- 
tress." 

259 


The  Nabob 

"  Come,  come,  Jansoulet." 

"  Well,  M.  le  Due  ?  One  can't  help  being  angry.  Think 
of  the  situation  in  which  these  wretches  are  placing  me. 
Here  I  ought  to  have  had  my  election  made  valid  a  week 
ago,  and  they  arrange  the  postponement  of  the  sitting  ex- 
pressly because  they  know  the  terrible  position  in  which  I 
am  placed — my  whole  fortune  paralyzed,  the  Bey  waiting 
for  the  decision  of  the  Chamber  to  decide  whether  or  not 
he  can  plunder  me.  I  have  eighty  millions  over  there,  M. 
le  Due,  and  here  I  begin  to  be  short  of  money.  If  the  thing 
goes  on  only  a  little  longer "     

He  wiped  away  the  big  drops  of  sweat  that  trickled 
down  his  cheeks. 

"  Ah,  well,  I  will  look  after  this  validation  myself,"  said 
the  minister  sharply.  "  I  will  write  to  what's-his-name  to 
hurry  up  with  his  report;  and  even  if  I  have  to  be  carried 
to  the  Chamber " 

'*  Your  excellency  is  unwell  ?  "  asked  Jansoulet,  in  a  tone 
of  interest  which,  I  swear  to  you,  had  no  affectation  about  it. 

"  No — a  little  weakness.  I  am  rather  anaemic — wanting 
blood ;  but  Jenkins  is  going  to  put  me  right.  Aren't  you, 
Jenkins  ?  " 

The  Irishman,  who  had  not  been  listening,  made  a  vague 
gesture. 

"  Tonnerre!    And  here  am  I  with  only  too  much  of  it." 

And  the  Nabob  loosened  his  cravat  about  his  neck,  swol- 
len like  an  apoplexy  by  his  emotion  and  the  heat  of  the 
room.    ''  If  I  could  only  transfer  a  little  to  you,  M.  le  Due  !  " 

"  It  would  be  an  excellent  thing  for  both,"  said  the  Min- 
ister of  State  with  pale  irony.  "  For  you,  especially,  who  are 
a  violent  fellow,  and  who  at  this  moment  need  so  much 
self-control.  Take  care  on  that  point,  Jansoulet.  Beware 
of  the  hot  retorts,  the  steps  taken  in  a  fit  of  temper  to  which 
they  would  like  to  drive  you.  Repeat  to  yourself  now  that 
.you  are  a  public  man,  on  a  platform,  all  of  whose  actions 
are  observed  from  far.  The  newspapers  are  abusing  you ; 
don't  read  them,  if  you  cannot  conceal  the  emotion  which 
they  cause  you.  Don't  do  what  I  did,  with  my  blind  man 
of  the  Pont  de  la  Concorde,  that  frightful  clarinet-player, 

260 


A  Public  Man 

who  for  the  last  ten  years  has  been  blighting  my  life  by 
playing  all  day  '  De  tes  fils,  Norma.'  I  have  tried  every- 
thing to  get  him  away  from  there — money,  threats.  Noth- 
ing has  succeeded  in  inducing  him  to  go.  The  police  ?  Ah, 
yes,  indeed.  With  modern  ideas,  it  becomes  quite  a  business 
to  clear  off  a  blind  man  from  a  bridge.  The  Opposition 
newspapers  would  talk  of  it,  the  Parisians  would  make  a 
story  out  of  it — '  The  Cobbler  and  the  Financier.'  '  The 
Duke  and  the  Clarinet.'  No,  I  must  resign  myself.  It  is, 
besides,  my  ow^n  fault.  I  never  ought  to  have  let  this  man 
see  that  he  annoyed  me.  I  am  sure  that  my  torture  makes 
half  the  pleasure  of  his  life  now'.  Every  morning  he  comes 
forth  from  his  wretched  lodging  w'ith  his  dog,  his  folding- 
stool,  his  frightful  music,  and  says  to  himself,  *  Come,  let 
us  go  and  worry  the  Due  de  Mora.'  Not  a  day  does  he 
miss,  the  wretch !  Why,  see,  if  I  were  but  to  open  the  win- 
dow a  trifle,  you  would  hear  his  deluge  of  little  sharp  notes 
above  the  noise  of  the  water  and  the  traffic.  Well,  this 
journalist  of  the  Messenger,  he  is  your  clarinet;  if  you 
allow  him  to  see  that  his  music  wearies  you,  he  will  never 
finish.  And  with  this,  my  dear  deputy,  I  will  remind  you 
that  you  have  a  meeting  at  three  o'clock  at  the  offices,  and 
I  must  send  you  back  to  the  Chamber." 

Then  turning  to  Jenkins  : 

"  You  know^  what  I  asked  of  you,  doctor — pearls  for 
the  day  after  to-morrow ;  and  let  them  be  extra  strong !  " 

Jenkins  started,  shook  himself  as  at  the  sudden  awaken- 
ing from  a  dream : 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  duke.  You  shall  be  given  some 
stamina — oh,  yes ;  stamina,  breath  enough  to  win  the  great 
Derby  stakes." 

He  bowed,  and  left  the  room  laughing,  the  veritable 
laugh  of  a  wolf  showing  its  gleaming  white  teeth.  The 
Nabob  took  leave  in  his  turn,  his  heart  filled  with  gratitude, 
but  not  daring  to  let  anything  of  it  appear  in  presence  of 
this  sceptic  in  whom  all  dcmonstrativeness  aroused  dis- 
trust. And  the  Minister  of  State,  left  alone,  rolled  up  in 
his  wraps  before  the  crackling  and  blazing  fire,  sheltered  in 
the  padded  warmth  of  his  luxury,  doubled  that  day  by  the 

261 


The  Nabob 

feverish  caress  of  the  May  sunshine,  began  to  shiver  with 
cold  again,  to  shiver  so  violently  that  Felicia's  letter  which 
he  had  reopened  and  was  reading  rapturously  shook  in  his 
hands. 

A  deputy  is  in  a  very  singular  situation  during  the  period 
which  follows  his  election  and  precedes — as  they  say  in  par- 
liamentary jargon — the  verification  of  its  validity.  It  is  a 
little  like  the  position  of  the  newly  married  man  during  the 
twenty-four  hours  separating  the  civil  marriage  from  its 
consecration  by  the  Church.  Rights  of  which  he  cannot 
avail  himself,  a  half-happiness,  a  semi-authority,  the  em- 
barrassment of  keeping  the  balance  a  little  on  this  side  or 
on  that,  the  lack  of  a  defined  footing.  One  is  married  and 
yet  not  married,  a  deputy  and  yet  not  perfectly  sure  of  being 
it ;  only,  for  the  deputy,  this  uncertainty  is  prolonged  over 
days  and  weeks,  and  since  the  longer  it  lasts  the  more  prob- 
lematical does  the  validation  become,  it  is  like  torture  for 
the  unfortunate  representative  on  probation  to  be  obliged 
to  attend  the  Chamber,  to  occupy  a  place  which  he  will  per- 
haps not  keep,  to  listen  to  discussions  of  which  it  is  possible 
that  he  will  never  hear  the  end,  to  fix  in  his  eyes  and  ears  the 
delicious  memory  of  parliamentar}'  sittings  with  their  sea 
of  bald  or  apoplectic  foreheads,  their  confused  noise  of  rus- 
tling papers,  the  cries  of  attendants,  wooden  knives  beating 
a  tattoo  on  the  tables,  private  conversations  from  amid  which 
the  voice  of  the  orator  issues,  a  thundering  or  timid  solo 
with  a  continuous  accompaniment. 

This  situation,  at  best  so  trying  to  the  nerves,  was  com- 
plicated in  the  Nabob's  case  by  these  calumnies,  at  first 
whispered,  now  printed,  circulated  in  thousands  of  copies 
by  the  newspapers,  with  the  consequence  that  he  found  him- 
self tacitly  put  in  quarantine  by  his  colleagues. 

The  first  days  he  went  and  came  in  the  corridors,  the 
library,  the  dining-room,  the  lecture-hall,  like  the  rest,  de- 
lighted to  roam  through  all  the  corners  of  that  majestic  laby- 
rinth ;  but  he  was  unknown  to  most  of  his  associates,  unac- 
knowledged by  a  few  members  of  the  Rue  Royale  Club,  who 
avoided  him,  detested  by  all  the  clerical  party  of  which  Le 
Merquier  was  the  head.     The  financial  set  was  hostile  to 

262 


A   Public  Man 

this  multi-millionaire,  powerful  in  both  "  bull  "  and  "  bear  '* 
market,  like  those  vessels  of  heavy  tonnage  which  displace 
the  water  of  a  harbour,  and  thus  his  isolation  only  became 
the  more  marked  by  the  change  in  his  circumstances  and  the 
same  enmity  followed  him  everywhere. 

His  gestures,  his  manner,  showed  trace  of  it  in  a  certain 
constraint,  a  sort  of  hesitating  distrust.  He  felt  he  was 
watched.  If  he  went  for  a  minute  into  the  buffet,  that  large, 
bright  room  opening  on  the  gardens  of  the  president's 
house,  which  he  liked  because  there,  at  the  broad  counter 
of  white  marble  laden  with  bottles  and  provisions,  the  depu- 
ties lost  their  big,  imposing  airs,  the  legislative  haughtiness 
allowed  itself  to  become  more  familiar,  even  there  he  knew 
that  the  next  day  there  would  appear  in  the  Messenger  a 
mocking,  offensive  paragraph  exhibiting  him  to  his  electors 
as  a  wine-bibber  of  the  most  notorious  order. 

Those  terrible  electors  added  to  his  embarrassments. 

They  arrived  in  crowds,  invaded  the  Salle  des  Pas-Perdus, 
galloped  all  over  the  place  like  little  fiery  black  kids,  shout- 
ing to  each  other  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the  echoing 
room,  "  O  Pe !  O  Tche !  "  inhaling  with  delight  the  odour 
of  government,  of  administration,  pervading  the  air,  watch- 
ing admiringly  the  ministers  as  they  passed,  following  in 
their  trail  with  keen  nose,  as  though  from  their  respected 
pockets,  from  their  swollen  portfolios,  there  might  fall  some 
appointment ;  but  especially  surrounding."  Moussiou  "  Jan- 
soulet  with  so  many  exacting  petitions,  reclamations,  dem- 
onstrations, that,  in  order  to  free  himself  from  the  gesticu- 
lating uproar  which  made  everybody  turn  round,  and  turned 
him  as  it  were  into  the  delegate  of  a  tribe  of  Tuaregs  in 
the  midst  of  civilized  folk,  he  was  obliged  to  implore  with  a 
look  the  help  of  some  attendant  on  duty  familiar  with  such 
acts  of  rescue,  who  would  come  to  him  with  an  air  of 
urgency  to  say  "  that  he  was  wanted  immediately  in  Bu- 
reau No.  8."  So  at  last,  embarrassed  everywhere,  driven 
from  the  corridors,  from  the  Pas-Perdus,  from  the  refresh- 
ment-room, the  poor  Nabob  had  adopted  the  course  of  never 
leaving  his  seat,  where  he  remained  motionless  and  without 
speaking  during  the  whole  time  of  the  sitting. 

263 


The  Nabob 

He  had,  however,  one  friend  in  the  Chamber,  a  deputy 
newly  elected  for  the  Deux-Sevres,  called  M.  Sarigue,  a 
poor  man  sufficiently  resembling  the  inoffensive  and  ill- 
favoured  animal  whose  name  he  bore,  with  his  red  and  scanty 
hair,  his  timorous  eyes,  his  hopping  walk,  his  white  gaiters; 
he  was  so  timid  that  he  could  not  utter  two  words  without 
stuttering,  almost  voiceless,  continually  sucking  jujubes, 
which  completed  the  confusion  of  his  speech.  One  asked 
what  such  a  weakling  as  he  had  come  to  do  in  the  Assem- 
bly, what  feminine  ambition  run  mad  had  urged  into  public 
life  this  being  useless  for  no  matter  what  private  activity. 

By  an  amusing  irony  of  fate,  Jansoulet,  himself  agitated 
by  all  the  anxieties  of  his  own  validation,  was  chosen  in 
Bureau  No.  8  to  draw  up  the  report  on  the  election  in  the 
Deux-Sevres ;  and  M.  Sarigue,  humble  and  supplicating, 
conscious  of  his  incapacity  and  filled  by  a  horrible  dread  of 
being  sent  back  to  his  home  in  disgrace,  used  to  follow 
about  this  great  jovial  fellow  with  the  curly  hair  and  big 
shoulder-blades  that  moved  like  the  bellows  of  a  forge  be- 
neath a  light  and  tightly  fitting  frock-coat,  without  any  sus- 
picion that  a  poor  anxious  being  like  himself  lay  concealed 
within  that  solid  envelope. 

As  he  worked  at  the  report  on  the  Deux-Sevres  election, 
as  he  examined  the  numerous  protests,  the  accusations  of 
electioneering  trickery,  meals  given,  mone}  spent,  casks  of 
wine  broached  at  the  doors  of  the  mayors'  houses,  the  usual 
accompaniments  of  an  election  in  those  days,  Jansoulet  used 
to  shudder  on  his  own  account.  "  Why,  I  did  all  that  my- 
self," he  would  say  to  himself,  terrified.  Ah!  M.  Sarigue 
need  not  be  afraid ;  never  could  he  have  put  his  hand  on  an 
examiner  with  kinder  intentions  or  more  indulgent,  for  the 
Nabob,  taking  pity  on  the  sufferer,  knowing  by  experience 
how  painful  is  the  anguish  of  waiting,  had  made  haste 
through  his  labour ;  and  the  enormous  portfolio  which  he 
carried  under  his  arm,  as  he  left  the  Mora  mansion,  con- 
tained his  report  ready  to  be  sent  in  to  the  bureau. 

Whether  it  were  this  first  essay  in  a  public  function, 
the  kind  words  of  the  duke,  or  the  magnificent  weather  out 
of  doors,  keenly  enjoyed  by  this  southerner,  with  his  sus- 

264 


A  Public  Man 

ceptibility  to  wholly  physical  impressions  and  accustomed 
to  life  under  a  blue  sky  and  the  warmth  of  the  sunshine — 
however  that  may  have  been,  certain  it  is  that  the  attendants 
of  the  legislative  body  beheld  that  day  a  proud  and  haughty 
Jansoulet  whom  they  had  not  previously  known.  The  fat 
Hemerlingue's  carriage,  caught  sight  of  at  the  gate,  recog- 
nisable by  the  unusual  width  of  its  doors,  completed  his 
reinstatement  in  the  possession  of  his  true  nature  of  as- 
surance and  bold  audacity.  "  The  enemy  is  there.  Atten- 
tion !  "  As  he  crossed  the  Salle  des  Pas-Perdus,  he  caught 
sight  of  the  financier  chatting  in  a  comer  with  Le  Merquier, 
the  examiner;  he  passed  quite  near  them,  and  looked  at 
them  with  a  triumphant  air  which  made  people  wonder : 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  " 

Then,  highly  pleased  at  his  own  coolness,  he  passed  on 
towards  the  committee-rooms,  big  and  lofty  apartments 
opening  right  and  left  on  a  long  corridor,  and  having  large 
tables  covered  with  green  baize,  and  heavy  chairs  all  of  a 
similar  pattern  and  bearing  the  impress  of  a  dull  solemnity. 
P'^ople  were  beginning  to  come  in.  Groups  were  taking 
up  their  positions,  discussing  matters,  gesticulating,  with 
bows,  shakings  of  hands,  inclinations  of  the  head,  like 
Chinese  shadows  against  the  luminous  background  of  the 
windows. 

Men  were  there  who  walked  about  with  bent  back, 
solitary,  as  it  were  crushed  down  beneath  the  weight  of  the 
thoughts  which  knitted  their  brow.  Others  were  whisper- 
ing in  their  neighbours'  ears,  confiding  to  each  other  ex- 
ceedingly mysterious  and  terribly  important  pieces  of  news, 
finger  on  lip,  eyes  opened  wide  in  silent  recommendation 
to  discretion.  A  provincial  flavour  characterized  it  all,  va- 
rieties of  intonation,  the  violence  of  southern  speech,  drawl- 
ing accents  of  the  central  districts,  the  sing-song  of  Brittany, 
fused  into  one  and  the  same  imbecile  self-conceit,  frock-coats 
as  they  cut  them  at  Landerneau,  mountain  shoes,  home- 
spun linen,  and  a  self-assurance  begotten  in  a  village  or 
in  the  club  of  some  insignificant  town,  local  expressions, 
provincialisms  abruptly  introduced  into  the  speech  of  the 
political  and  administrative  world,  that  flabby  and  colour- 

265 


The  Nabob 

less  phraseology  which  has  invented  such  expressions  as 
"  burning  questions  that  come  again  to  the  surface  "  and 
"  individuahties  without  mandate." 

To  see  these  excited  or  thoughtful  people,  you  might 
have  supposed  them  the  greatest  apostles  of  ideas  in  the 
world ;  unfortunately,  on  the  days  of  the  sittings  they  under- 
went a  transformation,  sat  in  hushed  silence  in  their  places, 
laughing  in  servile  fashion  at  the  jests  of  the  clever  man 
who  presided  over  them,  or  only  rising  to  make  ridiculous 
propositions,  the  kind  of  interruption  which  would  tempt 
one  to  believe  that  it  is  not  a  type  only,  but  a  whole  race, 
that  Henri  Monnier  has  satirized  in  his  immortal  sketch. 
Two  or  three  orators  in  all  the  Chamber,  the  rest  well  quali- 
fied to  plant  themselves  before  the  fireplace  of  a  provincial 
drawing-room,  after  an  excellent  meal  at  the  Prefect's,  and 
to  say  in  nasal  voice,  "  The  administration,  gentlemen,"  or 
"  The  Government  of  the  Emperor,"  but  incapable  of  any- 
thing further. 

Ordinarily  the  good  Nabob  had  been  dazzled  by  these 
poses,  that  buzzing  as  of  an  empty  spinning-wheel  which 
is  made  by  would-be  important  people ;  but  to-day  he  found 
his  own  place,  and  fell  in  with  the  general  note.  Seated  at 
the  centre  of  the  green  table,  his  portfolio  open  before  him, 
his  elbows  planted  well  forward  upon  it,  he  read  the  report 
drawn  up  by  de  Gery,  and  the  members  of  the  committee 
looked  at  him  in  amazement. 

It  was  a  concise,  clear,  and  rapid  summary  of  their  fort- 
night's proceedings,  in  which  they  found  their  ideas  so  well 
expressed  that  they  had  great  difBcuIty  in  recognising  them. 
Then,  as  two  or  three  among  them  considered  the  report 
too  favourable,  that  it  passed  too  lightly  over  certain  pro- 
tests that  had  reached  the  committee,  the  examiner  ad- 
dressed the  meeting  with  an  astonishing  assurance,  with  the 
prolixity,  the  verbosity  of  his  own  people,  demonstrated 
that  a  deputy  ought  not  to  be  held  responsible  beyond  a 
certain  point  for  the  imprudence  of  his  election  agents,  that 
no  election,  otherwise,  would  bear  a  minute  examination, 
and  since  in  reality  it  was  his  own  cause  that  he  was  plead- 
ing, he  brought  to  the  task  a  conviction,  an  irresistible  en- 

266 


A  Public  Man 

thusiasm,  taking  care  to  let  out  now  and  then  one  of  those 
long,  dull  substantives  with  a  thousand  feet,  such  as  the 
committee  loved. 

The  others  listened  to  him  thoughtfully,  communicating 
their  sentiments  to  each  other  by  nods  of  the  head,  making 
flourishes,  in  order  the  better  to  concentrate  their  attention, 
and  drawing  heads  on  their  blotting-pads — a  proceeding 
which  harmonized  well  with  the  schoolboyish  noises  in  the 
corridors,  a  murmur  of  lessons  in  course  of  repetition,  and 
those  droves  of  sparrows  which  you  could  hear  chirping 
under  the  casements  in  a  flagged  court-yard,  just  like  the 
court-yard  of  a  school.  The  report  having  been  adopted, 
M.  Sarigue  was  summoned  in  order  that  he  might  offer 
some  supplementary  explanations.  He  arrived,  pale,  emaci- 
ated, stuttering  like  a  crimmal  before  conviction,  and  you 
would  have  laughed  to  see  with  what  an  air  of  authority 
and  protection  Jansoulet  encourage-"  and  reassured  him. 
"  Calm  yourself,  my  dear  colleague."  But  the  members  of 
Committee  No.  8  did  not  laugh.  They  were  all,  or  nearly  all, 
Sarigues  in  their  way,  two  or  three  of  them  being  absolutely 
broken  down,  stricken  by  partial  paralysis.  So  much  assur- 
ance, such  great  eloquence,  had  moved  them  to  enthusiasm. 

When  Jansoulet  issued  from  the  legislative  assembly,  re- 
conducted to  his  carriage  by  his  grateful  colleague,  it  was 
about  six  o'clock.  The  splendid  weather — a  beautiful  sun- 
set over  the  Seine,  which  lay  stretching  away  like  molten 
gold  on  the  Trocadero  side — Avas  a  temptation  to  a  walk  for 
this  robust  plebeian,  on  whom  it  was  imposed  by  the  conven- 
tions that  he  should  ride  in  a  carriage  and  wear  gloves,  but 
who  escaped  such  encumbrances  as  often  as  he  possibly 
could.  He  dismissed  his  servants,  and,  with  his  portfolio 
under  his  arm,  set  forth  across  the  Pont  de  la  Concorde. 

Since  the  first  of  May  he  had  not  experienced  such  a 
sense  of  well-being.  With  rolling  gait,  hat  a  little  to  the 
back  of  his  head,  in  the  position  in  which  he  had  seen  it 
worn  by  overworked  politicians  harassed  by  pressure  of 
business,  allowing  all  the  laborious  fever  of  their  brain  to 
evaporate  in  the  coolness  of  the  air,  as  a  factory  discharges 
its  steam  into  the  gutter  at  the  end  of  a  day's  work,  he 

267  Vol.  18— M 


The  Nabob 

moved  fonA^ard  among  other  figures  like  his  own,  evidently 
coming  too  from  that  colonnaded  temple  which  faces  the 
Madeleine  above  the  fountains  of  the  Place.  As  they 
passed,  people  turned  to  look  after  them,  saying,  "  Those 
are  deputies."  And  Jansoulet  felt  the  delight  of  a  child, 
a  plebeian  joy,  compounded  of  ignorance  and  naive  vanity. 

"  Ask  for  the  Messenger,  evening  edition." 

The  words  came  from  a  newspaper  kiosk  at  the  corner 
of  the  bridge,  full  at  that  hour  of  fresh  printed  sheets  in 
heaps,  which  two  w^omen  were  quickly  folding,  and  which 
smelt  of  the  damp  press — late  news,  the  success  of  the  day 
or  its  scandal. 

Nearly  all  the  deputies  bought  a  copy  as  they  passed, 
and  glanced  over  it  quickly  in  the  hope  of  finding  their 
name.  Jansoulet,  for  his  part,  feared  to  see  his  in  it  and 
did  not  stop.  Then  suddenly  he  reflected :  "  Must  not  a 
public  man  be  above  these  weaknesses?  I  am  strong  enough 
now  to  read  everything."  He  retraced  his  steps  and  took 
a  newspaper  like  his  colleagues.  He  opened  it,  very  calmly, 
right  at  the  place  usually  occupied  by  Moessard's  articles. 
As  it  happened,  there  was  one.  Still  the  same  title: 
"  Chmoiseries,"  and  an  M.  for  signature. 

"  Ah !  ah !  "  said  the  public  man,  firm  and  cold  as  marble, 
with  a  fine  smile  of  disdain.  Mora's  lesson  still  rung  in  his 
ears,  and,  had  he  forgotten  it,  the  air  from  Norma  which 
was  being  slowly  played  in  little  ironical  notes  not  far  off 
would  have  sufficed  to  recall  it  to  him.  Only,  after  all 
calculations  have  been  made  amid  the  fleeting  happenings 
of  our  existence,  there  is  always  the  unforeseen  to  be  reck- 
oned with;  and  that  is  how  it  came  that  the  poor  Nabob 
suddenly  felt  a  wave  of  blood  blind  him,  a  cry  of  rage 
strangle  itself  in  the  sudden  contraction  of  his  throat.  This 
time  his  mother,  his  old  Frances,  had  been  dragged  into  the 
infamous  joke  of  the  "  Bateau  de  fleurs."  How  well  he 
aimed  his  blows,  this  Moessard,  how  well  he  knew  the  really 
sensitive  spots  in  that  heart,  so  frankly  exposed! 

"  Be  quiet,  Jansoulet ;  be  quiet." 

It  was  in  vain  that  he  repeated  the  words  to  himself 
again  and  again :  anger,  a  wild  anger,  that  intoxication  of 

268 


A  Public  Man 

the  blood  that  demands  blood,  took  possession  of  him.  His 
first  impulse  was  to  hail  a  cab,  that  he  might  escape  from  the 
irritating  street,  free  his  body  from  the  preoccupation  of 
walking  and  maintaining  a  physical  composure — to  hail  a 
cab  as  for  a  wounded  man.  But  the  carriages  which 
thronged  the  square  at  that  hour  of  general  home-going 
were  victorias,  landaus,  private  broughams,  hundreds  of 
them,  passing  down  from  the  lurid  splendour  of  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe  towards  the  violet  shadows  of  the  Tuileries,  rush- 
ing, it  seemed,  one  over  another,  in  the  sloping  perspective 
of  the  avenue,  down  to  the  great  square  w'here  the  motion- 
less statues,  with  their  circular  crowns  on  their  brows, 
watched  them  as  they  separated  towards  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Germain,  the  Rue  Royale  and  the  Rue  de  Rivoli, 

Jansoulet,  his  newspaper  in  his  hand,  traversed  this 
tumult  without  giving  it  a  thought,  carried  by  force  of  habit 
towards  the  club  where  he  went  every  day  for  his  game 
of  cards  from  six  to  seven.  A  public  man,  he  was  that  still ; 
but  excited,  speaking  aloud,  muttering  oaths  and  threats 
in  a  voice  that  had  suddenly  grown  tender  again  at  the  mem- 
ory of  the  dear  old  woman.  To  have  dragged  her  into 
that — her  also!  Oh,  if  she  should  read  it,  if  she  should 
understand !  What  punishment  could  he  invent  for  such  an 
infamy?  He  had  reached  the  Rue  Royale,  up  which  were 
disappearing  with  the  speed  of  horses  that  knew  they  were 
going  home  and  with  glancings  of  shining  axles,  visions  of 
veiled  women,  heads  of  fair-haired  children,  equipages  of 
all  kinds  returning  from  the  Bois,  depositing  a  little  gen- 
uine earth  upon  the  Paris  pavement,  and  bringing  odours  of 
spring  mingled  with  the  scent  of  pondrc  de  ris. 

Opposite  the  Ministry  of  Marine,  a  very  high  phaeton 
on  light  wheels,  rather  like  a  great  spider,  its  body  repre- 
sented by  the  little  groom  hanging  on  to  the  box  and  the 
two  persons  occupying  the  front  seat,  just  missed  a  collision 
with  the  curb  as  it  turned  the  corner. 

The  Nabob  raised  his  head  and  stifled  a  cry. 

Beside  a  painted  woman,  with  red  hair  and  wearing  a 
tiny  hat  with  wide  strings,  who,  perched  on  her  leathern 
cushion,  sat  leaning  stiffly  forward,  hands,  eyes,  her  whole 

269 


The  Nabob 

factitious  person  intent  on  driving  the  horse,  there  sat,  pink 
and  made-up  also,  grown*  fat  with  the  same  vices,  Moes- 
sard,  the  handsome  Moessard — the  harlot  and  the  journal- 
ist ;  and  of  the  two,  it  was  not  the  woman  who  had  sold  her- 
self the  most.  High  above  those  women  reclining  in  their 
open  carriages,  those  men  opposite  them  half  buried  beneath 
the  flounces  of  their  gowns,  all  those  poses  of  fatigue  and 
weariness  which  the  overfed  exhibit  in  public  as  in  contempt 
of  pleasure  and  riches,  they  lorded  it  insolently,  she  very 
proud  to  be  seen  driving  with  the  lover  of  the  Queen,  and 
he  without  the  least  shame  in  sitting  beside  a  creature  who 
hooked  men  in  the  drives  of  the  Bois  with  the  lash  of  her 
whip,  removed  on  her  high-perched  seat  from  all  fear  of  the 
salutary  raids  of  the  police.  Perhaps,  in  order  to  whet  the 
appetite  of  his  royal  mistress,  he  chose  to  parade  beneath  her 
windows  in  the  company  of  Suzanne  Bloch,  known  as  Suze 
the  Red. 

"  Hep !  hep,  then !  " 

The  horse,  a  high  trotter  with  slim  legs,  just  such  a 
horse  as  a  cocotte  would  care  to  own,  recovered  from  its 
swerve  and  resumed  its  proper  place  with  dancing  steps, 
graceful  pawings  executed  on  the  same  spot  without  ad- 
vancing. Jansoulet  let  fall  his  portfolio,  and  as  though  he 
had  dropped  with  it  all  his  gravity,  his  prestige  as  a  public 
man,  he  made  a  terrible  spring,  and  dashed  to  the  bit  of 
the  animal,  which  he  held  firm  with  his  strong,  hairy  hands. 

A  carriage  forcibly  stopped  in  the  Rue  Royale,  and  in 
broad  daylight — only  this  Tartar  would  have  dared  such  a 
stroke  as  that ! 

"  Get  down ! "  said  he  to  Moessard,  whose  face  had 
turned  green  and  yellow  when  he  saw  him.  "  Get  down 
immediately !  " 

"  Will  you  let  go  my  horse,  you  bloated  idiot !  Whip 
up,  Suzanne ;  it  is  the  Nabob." 

She  tried  to  gather  up  the  reins,  but  the  animal,  held 
firmly,  reared  so  sharply  that  a  little  more  and  like  a  sling  the 
fragile  vehicle  would  have  sent  everybody  in  it  flying  far 
away.  At  this,  furious  with  one  of  those  plebeian  rages 
which  in  women  of  her  kind  shatter  all  the  veneer  of  their 

270 


A   Public  Man 

luxury,  she  dealt  the  Nabob  two  stinging  lashes  with  her 
whip,  which  left  little  trace  on  his  tanned  and  hardened  face, 
but  which  brought  there  a  ferocious  expression,  accentuated 
by  the  short  nose  which  had  turned  white  and  was  slit  at  the 
tnd  like  that  of  a  sporting  terrier, 

"  Come  down,  or,  by  God,  I  will  upset  the  whole  thing!  " 
.  Amid  an  eddy  of  carriages  arrested  by  the  block  in  the 
traffic,  or  that  passed  slowly  round  the  obstacle,  with  thou- 
sands of  curious  eyes,  amid  cries  of  coachmen  and  clinking 
of  bits,  two  wrists  of  iron  shook  the  entire  vehicle. 

"Jump — but  jump,  I  tell  you!  Don't  you  see  he  will 
have  us  over  ?    What  a  grip !  " 

And  the  w'oman  looked  at  the  Hercules  with  interest. 

Hardly  had  Moessard  set  foot  to  the  ground,  and  before 
he  could  take  refuge  on  the  pavement,  whither  the  black 
military  caps  of  policemen  could  be  seen  hastening,  Jan- 
soulet  threw  himself  upon  him,  lifted  him  by  the  back  of 
the  neck  like  a  rabbit,  and,  careless  of  his  protestations  and 
his  terrified  stammerings : 

"Yes,  yes,  I  will  give  you  satisfaction,  you  blackguard! 
But,  first,  I  intend  to  do  to  you  what  is  done  to  dirty  beasts 
to  prevent  them  from  repeating  the  same  ofTence." 

And  roughly  he  set  to  work  rubbing  his  nose  and  face 
all  over  with  his  newspaper,  which  he  had  rolled  into  a  ball, 
stifling  him,  blinding  him  with  it,  and  making  scratches 
from  which  the  blood  trickled  over  his  skin.  The  man  was 
dragged  from  his  hands,  crimson,  suffocated.  A  little  more 
and  he  would  have  killed  him. 

The  struggle  over,  pulling  down  his  sleeves,  adjusting 
his  crumpled  linen,  picking  up  his  portfolio  out  of  which  the 
papers  of  the  Sarigue  election  were  flying  scattered  even  to 
the  gutter,  the  Nabob  answered  the  policemen  wlio  w^ere 
asking  him  for  his  name  in  order  to  draw  up  a  summons : 

"  Bernard  Jansoulet,  Deputy  for  Corsica." 

A  public  man ! 

Only  then  did  he  remember  that  he  w^as  one.  \\nio 
would  have  suspected  it,  seeing  him  breathless  and  bare- 
headed, like  a  porter  after  a  street  fight,  under  the  eager, 
coldly  mocking  glances  of  the  crowd? 

271 


XVII 

THE   APPARITION 

If  you  want  simple  and  sincere  feeling,  if  you  would 
see  overflowing  affection,  tenderness,  laughter — the  laughter 
born  of  great  happiness  which,  at  a  tiny  movement  of  the 
lips,  is  brought  to  the  verge  of  tears — and  the  beautiful  wild 
joy  of  youth  illumined  by  bright  eyes  transparent  to  the 
very  depths  of  the  souls  behind  them — all  these  things  you 
may  find  this  Sunday  morning  in  a  house  that  you  know  of, 
a  new  house,  down  yonder,  right  at  the  end  of  the  old  fau- 
bourg. The  glass  door  on  the  ground  floor  shines  more 
brightly  than  usual.  More  gaily  than  ever  dance  the  letters 
over  the  door,  and  from  the  open  windows  comes  the  sound 
of  glad  cries,  flowing  from  a  stream  of  happiness. 

"  Accepted !  it  is  accepted !  Oh,  what  good  luck !  Hen- 
riette,  Elise,  do  come  here !  M.  Maranne's  play  is  ac- 
cepted !  " 

Andre  heard  the  news  yesterday.  Cardailhac,  the  man- 
ager of  the  Nouucaufes,  sent  for  him  to  inform  him  that 
his  play  was  to  be  produced  immediately — that  it  would  be 
put  on  next  month.  They  passed  the  evening  discussing 
scenic  arrangements  and  the  distribution  of  parts ;  and,  as 
it  was  too  late  to  knock  at  his  neighbour's  door  when  he  got 
home  from  the  theatre,  the  happy  author  waited  for  the 
morning  in  feverish  impatience,  and  then,  as  soon  as  he 
heard  people  stirring  below  and  the  shutters  open  with  a 
click  against  the  house-front,  he  made  haste  to  go  down  to 
announce  the  good  news  to  his  friends.  Just  now  they 
are  all  assembled  together,  the  young  ladies  in  pretty  desha- 
bille, their  hair  hastily  twisted  up,  and  M.  Joyeuse,  whom 
the  announcement  had  surprised  in  the  midst  of  shaving,  pre- 
senting under   his   embroidered   night-cap   a   strange   face 

2y2 


The  Apparition 


divided  into  two  parts,  one  side  shaved,  the  other  not.  But 
Andre  Maranne  is  the  most  excited,  for  you  know  what 
the  acceptance  of  Revolt  means  for  him ;  what  was  agreed 
between  them  and  Bonne  Maman.  The  poor  fellow  looks 
at  her  as  if  to  find  an  encouragement  in  her  eyes ;  and  the 
rather  mischievous,  kind  eyes  seem  to  say,  "  Make  the  ex- 
periment, in  any  case.  What  is  the  risk?  "  To  give  himself 
courage  he  looks  also  at  Mile.  Elise,  pretty  as  a  flower,  with 
her  long  eyelashes  drooped.    At  last,  making  up  his  mind : 

"  M.  Joyeuse,"  said  he  thickly,  "  I  have  a  very  serious 
communication  to  make  to  you." 

M.  Joyeuse  expresses  astonishment. 

"  A  communication  ?    Ah,  mon  Dieit,  you  alarm  me !  " 

And,  low'ering  his  voice : 

"  Are  the  girls  in  the  way  ?  " 

"  No.  Bonne  JMaman  knows  what  I  mean.  Mile.  Elise 
also  must  have  some  suspicion  of  it.    It  is  only  the  children." 

Mile.  Henriette  and  her  sister  are  asked  to  retire,  which 
they  immediately  do,  the  one  with  a  dignified  and  annoyed 
air,  like  a  true  daughter  of  the  Saint-Amands,  the  other,  the 
young  Chinese  Yaia,  hardly  hiding  a  wild  desire  to  laugh. 

Thereupon  a  great  silence ;  after  which,  the  lover  begins 
his  little  story. 

I  quite  believe  that  Mile.  Elise  has  some  suspicion  in 
her  mind,  for  as  soon  as  their  young  neighbour  spoke  of  a 
communication,  she  drew  her  Ansarf  et  Rendu  from  her 
pocket  and  plunged  precipitately  into  the  adventures  of 
somebody  sumamed  the  Hutin.  thrilling  reading  which 
makes  the  book  tremble  in  her  hands.  There  is  reason 
for  trembling,  certainly,  before  the  bewilderment,  the  in- 
dignant stupefaction  into  which  M.  Joyeuse  receives  this 
request  for  his  daughter's  hand. 

"Is  it  possible?  How  has  it  happened?  What  an  ex- 
traordinary event !  Who  could  ever  have  suspected  such  a 
thing?" 

And  suddenly  the  good  old  man  burst  into  a  great  roar 
of  laughter.  Well,  no,  it  is  not  true.  He  had  heard  of  the 
affair ;  knew  all  about  it,  a  long  time  ago. 

Her  father  knew  all  about  it!     Bonne  Maman  had  be- 

273 


The  Nabob 

trayed  them  then !    And  before  the  reproachful  glances  cast 
in  her  direction,  the  culprit  comes  forward  smiling: 

"  Yes,  my  dears,  it  is  I.  The  secret  was  too  much  for  me. 
I  found  I  could  not  keep  it  to  myself  alone.  And  then, 
father  is  so  kind — one  cannot  hide  anything  from  him." 

As  she  says  this  she  throws  her  arms  round  the  little 
man's  neck ;  but  there  is  room  enough  for  two,  and  when 
Mile.  Elise  in  her  turn  takes  refuge  there,  there  is  still  an 
affectionate,  fatherly  hand  stretched  out  towards  him  whom 
M.  Joyeuse  considers  thenceforward  as  his  son.  Silent 
embraces,  long  looks  meeting  each  other  full  of  emotion, 
blessed  moments  that  one  would  like  to  hold  forever  by  the 
fragile  tips  of  their  wings.  There  is  chat,  and  gentle  laughter 
when  certain  details  are  recalled.  M.  Joyeuse  tells  how  the 
secret  was  revealed  to  him  in  the  first  instance  by  tapping 
spirits,  one  day  when  he  was  alone  in  Andre's  apartment. 
"  How  is  business  going,  M.  Maranne  ?  "  the  spirits  had 
inquired,  and  he  himself  had  replied  in  Maranne's  absence : 
"  Fairly  well,  for  the  season,  Sir  Spirit."  The  little  man  re- 
peats, "  Fairly  well,  for  the  season,"  in  a  mischievous  way, 
while  Mile.  Elise,  quite  confused  at  the  thought  that  it  was 
with  her  father  that  she  talked  that  day,  disappears  under 
l)er  fair  curls. 

After  the  first  stress  of  emotion  they  talk  more  seriously. 
It  is  certain  that  Mme.  Joyeuse,  nee  de  Saint-Amand,  would 
never  have  consented  to  this  marriage.  Andre  Maranne  is 
not  rich,  still  less  noble ;  but  the  old  accountant,  luckily, 
has  not  the  same  ideas  of  grandeur  that  his  wife  possessed. 
They  love  each  other;  they  are  young,  healthy,  and  good- 
looking — qualities  that  in  themselves  constitute  fine  dow- 
ries, without  involving  any  heavy  registration  fees  at  the 
notary's.  The  new  household  will  be  installed  on  the  floor 
above.  The  photography  will  be  continued,  unless  Revolt 
should  produce  enormous  receipts.  (The  Visionary  may  be 
trusted  to  see  to  that.)  In  any  case,  the  father  will  still 
remain  near  them ;  he  has  a  good  place  at  his  stockbroker's 
office,  some  expert  business  in  the  courts ;  provided  that 
the  little  ship  continue  to  sail  in  deep  enough  water,  all  will 
go  well,  with  the  aid  of  wave,  wind,  and  star. 

274 


The  Apparition 


Only  one  question  preoccupies  M.  Joyeuse :  "  Will  An- 
dre's parents  consent  to  this  marriage  ?  How  will  Dr.  Jen- 
kins, so  rich,  so  celebrated,  take  it  ?  " 

"  Let  us  not  speak  of  that  man,"  said  Andre,  turning 
pale ;  "  he  is  a  wretch  to  whom  I  owe  nothing — who  is  noth- 
ing to  me." 

He  stops,  embarrassed  by  this  explosion  of  anger,  which 
ke  was  unable  to  restrain  and  cannot  explain,  and  goes  on 
more  gently : 

"  My  mother,  who  comes  to  see  me  sometimes  in  spite 
of  the  prohibition  laid  upon  her,  was  the  first  to  be  told 
of  our  plans.  She  already  loves  Mile.  Elise  as  her  daugh- 
ter. You  will  see,  mademoiselle,  how  good  she  is,  and  how 
beautiful  and  charming.  What  a  misfortune  that  she  be- 
longs to  such  a  wicked  man,  who  tyrannizes  over  her,  and 
tortures  her  even  to  the  point  of  forbidding  her  to  utter  her 


son's  name." 


Poor  Maranne  heaves  a  sigh  that  speaks  volumes  on  the 
great  grief  which  he  hides  in  the  depths  of  his  heart.  But 
what  sadness  would  not  have  been  vanquished  in  presence 
of  that  dear  face  lighted  up  with  its  fair  curls  and  the  ra- 
diant perspective  of  the  future?  These  serious  questions 
having  been  settled,  they  are  able  to  open  the  door  and  recall 
the  two  exiles.  In  order  to  avoid  filling  their  little  heads 
with  thoughts  above  their  age,  it  has  been  agreed  to  say 
nothing  about  the  prodigious  event,  to  tell  them  nothing 
except  that  they  have  all  to  make  haste  and  dress,  breakfast 
still  more  quickly,  so  as  to  be  able  to  spend  the  afternoon 
in  the  Bois,  where  Maranne  will  read  his  play  to  them,  be- 
fore they  go  on  to  Suresnes  to  have  dinner  at  Kontzen's: 
a:  whole  programme  of  delights  in  honour  of  the  acceptance 
of  Revolt,  and  of  another  piece  of  good  news  which  they 
will  hear  later. 

"Ah,  really — what  is  it,  then?"  ask  the  two  little  girls, 
with  an  innocent  air. 

But  if  you  fancy  they  don't  know  what  is  in  the  air,  if 
you  think  that  when  Mile.  Elise  used  to  give  three  raps  on 
the  ceiling  they  imagined  that  it  was  for  information  on 
business,  you  are  more  ingenuous  even  than  le  pere  Joyeuse. 

275 


The  Nabob 

"  That's  all  right — that's  all  right,  children ;  go  and  dress, 
in  any  case." 

Then  there  begins  another  refrain : 

"  What  frock  must  I  put  on,  Bonne  Maman — the  gray?  " 

"  Bonne  Maman,  there  is  a  string  off  my  hat." 

"  Bonne  Maman,  my  child,  have  I  no  more  starched 
cravats  left  ?  " 

For  ten  minutes  the  charming  grandmother  is  besieged 
with  questions  and  entreaties.  Every  one  needs  her  help 
in  some  way ;  it  is  she  who  has  the  keys  of  everything,  she 
who  gives  out  the  pretty,  white,  fine  goffered  linen,  the  em- 
broidered handkerchiefs,  the  best  gloves,  all  the  dainty 
things  which,  taken  out  from  drawers  and  wardrobes,  spread 
over  the  bed,  fill  a  house  with  a  bright  Sunday  gaiety. 

The  workers,  the  people  with  tasks  to  fulfil,  alone  know 
that  delight  which  returns  each  week  consecrated  by  the 
customs  of  a  nation.  For  these  prisoners  of  the  week,  the 
almanac  with  its  closed  prison-like  gratings  opens  at  regu- 
lar intervals  into  luminous  spaces,  with  breaths  of  refreshing 
air.  It  is  the  Sunday,  the  day  that  seems  so  long  to  fashion- 
able folk,  to  the  Parisians  of  the  boulevard  whose  habits 
it  disturbs,  so  gloomy  to  people  far  from  their  homes  and 
relatives,  that  constitutes  for  a  multitude  of  human  beings 
the  only  recompense,  the  one  aim  of  the  desperate  efforts 
of  six  days  of  toil.  Neither  rain  nor  hail,  nothing  makes 
any  difference,  nothing  will  prevent  them  from  going  out, 
from  closing  behind  them  the  door  of  the  deserted  work- 
shop, of  the  stuffy  little  lodging.  But  when  the  springtime 
is  come,  when  the  May  sunshine  glitters  on  it  as  this  morn- 
ing, and  it  can  deck  itself  out  in  gay  colours,  then  indeed 
Sunday  is  the  holiday  of  holidays. 

If  one  would  know  it  well,  it  must  be  seen  especially  in 
the  working  quarters  of  the  town,  in  those  gloomy  streets 
which  it  lights  up  and  enlarges  by  closing  the  shops,  keeping 
in  their  sheds  the  heavy  drays  and  trucks,  leaving  the  space 
free  for  wandering  bands  of  children  washed  and  in  their 
Sunday  clothes,  and  for  games  of  battledore  and  shuttle- 
cock played  amid  the  great  circlings  of  the  swallows  be- 
neath some  porch  of  old  Paris,     It  must  be  seen  in  the 

276 


The   Apparition 


densely  populated,  feverishly  toiling  suburbs,  where,  as 
soon  as  morning  is  come,  you  may  feel  it  hovering,  repose- 
ful and  sweet,  in  the  silence  of  the  factories,  passing 
with  the  ringing  of  church-bells  and  that  sharp  whistle  of 
the  railways,  and  filling  the  horizon,  all  around  the  out- 
skirts of  the  city,  with  an  immense  song,  as  it  were,  of 
departure  and  of  deliverance.  Then  one  understands  it  and 
loves  it. 

O  Sunday  of  Paris,  Sunday  of  the  toilers  and  the  hum- 
ble, often  have  I  cursed  thee  without  reason,  I  have  poured 
whole  streams  of  abusive  ink  over  thy  noisy  and  extrava- 
gant joys,  over  the  dust  of  railway  stations  filled  by  thy 
uproar  and  the  maddening  omnibuses  that  thou  takest  by 
assault,  over  thy  tavern  songs  bawled  everywhere  from 
carts  adorned  with  green  and  pink  dresses,  on  thy  barrel- 
organs  grinding  out  their  tunes  beneath  the  balconies  of 
deserted  court-yards ;  but  to-day,  abjuring  my  errors,  I  exalt 
thee,  and  I  bless  thee  for  all  the  joy  and  relief  thou  givest 
to  courageous  and  honest  labour,  for  the  laughter  of  the 
children  who  greet  thee  with  acclamation,  the  pride  of 
mothers  happy  to  dress  their  little  ones  in  their  best  clothes 
in  thy  honour,  for  the  dignity  thou  dost  preserve  in  the 
homes  of  the  poorest,  the  glorious  raiment  set  aside  for  thee 
at  the  bottom  of  the  old  shaky  chest  of  drawers ;  I  bless 
thee  especially  by  reason  of  all  the  happiness  thou  hast 
brought  that  morning  to  the  great  new  house  in  the  old 
faubourg. 

Toilettes  having  been  completed,  the  dejeuner  finished, 
taken  on  the  thumb,  as  they  say — and  you  can  imagine  what 
quantity  these  young  ladies'  thumbs  would  carry — they  came 
to  put  on  their  hats  before  the  mirror  in  the  drawing-room. 
Bonne  Maman  threw  around  her  supervising  glance,  insert- 
ed a  pin  here,  retied  a  ribbon  there,  straightened  her  father's 
cravat;  but  while  all  this  little  world  was  stamping  with 
impatience,  beckoned  out  of  doors  by  the  beauty  of  the  day, 
there  came  a  ring  at  the  bell,  echoing  through  the  apartment 
and  disturbing  their  gay  proceedings. 

"Suppose  we  don't  open  the  door?"  propose  the  chil- 
dren. 

277 


The  Nabob 

And  what  a  relief,  what  a  cry  of  delight,  when  they  see 
their  friend  Paul  come  in ! 

"  Quick !  quick !  Come  and  let  us  tell  you  the  good 
news." 

He  knew  well,  before  any  of  them,  that  the  play  had 
been  accepted.  He  had  had  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  get  it 
read  by  Cardailhac,  who,  the  moment  he  saw  its  "  short 
lines,"  as  he  called  verse,  wished  to  send  the  manuscript  to 
the  Levantine  and  her  masseur,  as  he  was  wont  to  do  in 
the  case  of  all  beginners  in  the  writing  of  drama.  But  Paul 
was  careful  not  to  refer  to  his  own  intervention.  As  for  the 
other  event,  the  one  of  which  nothing  was  said,  on  account 
of  the  children,  he  guessed  it  easily  by  the  trembling  greeting 
of  Maranne,  whose  fair  mane  was  standing  straight  up  over 
his  forehead  by  reason  of  the  poet's  two  hands  having  been 
pushed  through  it  so  many  times,  a  thing  he  always  did  in 
his  moments  of  joy,  by  the  slightly  embarrassed  demeanour 
of  Elise,  by  the  triumphant  airs  of  M.  Joyeuse,  who  was 
standing  very  erect  in  his  new  summer  clothes,  with  all  the 
happiness  of  his  children  written  on  his  face. 

Bonne .Maman  alone  preserved  her  usual  peaceful  air; 
but  one  noticed,  in  the  eager  alacrity  with  which  she  fore- 
stalled her  sister's  wants,  a  certain  attention  still  more  tender 
than  before,  an  anxiety  to  make  her  look  pretty.  And  it  was 
delicious  to  watch  the  girl  of  twenty  as  she  busied  herself 
about  the  adornment  of  others,  without  enyy,  without  re- 
gret, with  something  of  the  gentle  renunciation  of  a  mother 
welcoming  the  young  love  of  her  daughter  in  memory  of  a 
happiness  gone  by.  Paul  saw  this ;  he  was  the  only  one 
who  did  see  it ;  but  while  admiring  Aline,  he  asked  himself 
sadly  if  in  that  maternal  heart  there^  would  ever  be  place 
for  other  affections,  for  preoccupations  outside  the  tranquil 
and  bright  circle  wherein  Bonne  Maman  presided  so  pret- 
tily over  the  evening  work. 

Love  is,  as  one  knows,  a  poor  blind  creature,  deprived 
of  hearing  and  speech,  and  only  led  by  presentiments,  divina- 
tions, the  nervous  faculties  of  a  sick  man.  It  is  pitiable 
indeed  to  see  him  wandering,  feeling  his  way,  constantly 
making  false  steps,  passing  his  hands  over  the  supports  by 

278 


The  Apparition 

which  he  guides  himself  with  the  distrustful  awkwardness 
of  the  infirm.  At  the  very  moment  when  Paul  was  doubting 
Aline's  sensibility,  in  announcing  to  his  friends  that  he  was 
about  to  start  on  a  journey  which  would  occupy  several 
days,  perhaps  several  weeks,  did  not  remark  the  girl's  sud- 
den paleness,  did  not  hear  the  distressed  cry  that  escaped 
her  lips : 

"  You  are  going  away  ?  " 

He  was  going  aw^ay,  going  to  Tunis,  very  much  troubled 
at  leaving  his  poor  Nabob  in  the  midst  of  the  pack  of  furious 
wolves  that  surrounded  him.  Mora's  protection,  however, 
gave  him  some  reassurance;  and  then,  the  journey  in  ques- 
tion was  absolutely  necessary. 

"  And  the  Territorial  ?  "  asked  the  old  accountant,  ever 
returning  to  the  subject  in  his  mind.  "  How  are  things 
standing  there?  I  see  Jansoulet's  name  still  at  the  head 
of  the  board.  You  cannot  get  him  out,  then,  from  that 
Ali-Baba's  cave?    Take  care — take  care!" 

"  Ah,  I  know  all  about  that,  M.  Joyeuse.  But,  to  leave 
it  with  honour,  money  is  needed,  much  money,  a  fresh 
sacrifice  of  two  or  three  millions,  and  we  have  not  got 
them.  That  is  exactly  the  reason  why  I  am  going  to  Tunis 
to  try  to  wrest  from  the  rapacity  of  the  Bey  a  slice  of  that 
great  fortune  which  he  is  retaining  in  his  possession  so  un- 
justly. At  present  I  have  still  some  chance  of  succeeding, 
w'hile  later  on,  perhaps " 

"  Go,  then,  and  make  haste,  my  dear  lad,  and  if  you 
return,  as  I  wish  you  may,  with  a  heavy  bag,  see  that  you 
deal  first  of  all  with  the  Paganetti  gang.  Remember  that 
one  shareholder  less  patient  than  the  rest  has  the  power  to 
smash  the  whole  thing  up,  to  demand  an  inquiry ;  and 
you  know  what  the  inquiry  would  reveal.  Now  I  come 
to  think  of  it,"  added  M.  Joyeuse,  whose  brow  had  con- 
tracted a  frown,  "  I  am  even  surprised  that  Hemerlingue, 
in  his  hatred  for  you,  has  not  secretly  bought  up  a  few 
shares." 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  chorus  of  imprecations  which 
the  name  of  Hemerlingue  raised  from  all  the  young  people, 
who  detested  the  fat  banker  for  the  injury  he  had  done  their 

279 


The  Nabob 

father,  and  for  the  ill-will  he  bore  that  good  Nabob,  who 
was  adored  in  the  house  through  Paul  de  Gery. 

"  Hemerlingue,  the  heartless  monster !  Wretch !  That 
wicked  man !  " 

But  amid  all  these  exclamations,  the  Visionary  was  fol- 
lowing up  his  idea  of  the  fat  baron  becoming  a  shareholder 
in  the  Territorial  for  the  purpose  of  dragging  his  enemy 
into  the  courts.  And  you  may  imagine  the  stupefaction  of 
Andre  Maranne,  a  complete  stranger  to  the  whole  affair, 
when  he  saw  M.  Joyeuse  turn  to  him,  and,  with  face  purple 
and  swollen  with  rage,  point  his  finger  at  him,  with  these 
terrible  words : 

"  The  greatest  rascal,  after  all,  in  this  afifair,  is  you,  sir !  " 

"  Oh,  papa,  papa !  what  are  you  saying  ?  " 

"  Eh,  what  ?  Ah,  forgive  me,  my  dear  Andre.  I  was 
fancying  myself  in  the  examining  magistrate's  private  room, 
face  to  face  with  that  rogue.  It  is  my  confounded  brain  that 
is  always  running  away  with  me." 

All  broke  into  uproarious  laughter,  which  escaped  into 
the  outer  air  through  the  open  windows,  and  went  to  mingle 
with  the  thousand  noises  of  moving  vehicles  and  people  in 
their  Sunday  clothes  going  up  the  Avenue  des  Ternes.  The 
author  of  Revolt  took  advantage  of  the  diversion  to  ask 
whether  they  were  not  soon  going  to  start.  It  was  late — 
the  good  places  would  be  taken  in  the  Bois. 

"  To  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  on  Sunday ! "  exclaimed 
Paul  de  Gery. 

"  Oh,  our  Bois  is  not  yours,"  replied  Aline  with  a  smile. 
"  Come  with  us,  and  you  will  see." 

Did  it  ever  happen  to  you,  in  the  course  of  a  solitary 
and  contemplative  walk,  to  lie  down  on  your  face  in  the  un- 
dergrowth of  a  forest,  amid  that  vegetation  which  springs 
up,  various  and  manifold,  through  the  fallen  autumn  leaves, 
and  allow  your  eyes  to  wander  along  the  level  of  the  ground 
before  you?  Little  by  little  the  sense  of  height  is  lost,  the 
interwoven  branches  of  the  oaks  above  your  head  form  an 
inaccessible  sky,  and  you  behold  a  new  forest  extending 
beneath  the  other,  opening  its  deep  avenues  filled  by  a  green 
and  mysterious  light,  and  formed  of  tiny  shrubs  or  root 

280 


The   Apparition 

fibres  taking  the  appearance  of  the  stems  of  sugar-canes, 
of  severely  graceful  palm-trees,  of  delicate  cups  containing 
a  drop  of  water,  of  many-branched  candlesticks  bearing 
little  yellow  lights  which  the  wind  blows  on  as  it  passes. 
And  the  miraculous  thing  is,  that  beneath  these  light  shad- 
ows live  minute  plants  and  thousands  of  insects  whose  exist- 
ence, observed  from  so  near  at  hand,  is  a  revelation  to  you  of 
all  the  mysteries.  An  ant,  bending  like  a  wood-cutter  under 
his  burden,  drags  after  it  a  splinter  of  bark  bigger  than 
itself ;  a  beetle  makes  its  way  along  a  blade  of  grass  thrown 
like  a  bridge  from  one  stem  to  another;  while  beneath  a  lofty 
bracken  standing  isolated  in  the  middle  of  a  patch  of  velvety 
moss,  a  little  blue  or  red  insect  waits,  with  antennae  at  atten- 
tion, for  another  little  insect  on  its  way  through  some  desert 
path  over  there  to  arrive  at  the  trysting-place  beneath  the 
giant  tree.  It  is  a  small  forest  beneath  a  great  one,  too  near 
the  soil  to  be  noticed  by  its  big  neighbours,  too  humble,  too 
hidden  to  be  reached  by  its  great  orchestra  of  song  and 
storm. 

A  similar  revelation  awaits  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 
Behind  those  sanded  drives,  watered  and  clean,  whereon 
files  of  carriage-wheels  moving  slowly  round  the  lake  trace 
all  dav  long  a  worn  and  mechanical  furrow,  behind  that  ad- 
mirably set  scene  of  trimmed  green  hedges,  of  captive  water, 
of  flowery  rocks,  the  true  Bois,  a  wild  wood  with  perennial 
undergrowth,  grows  and  flourishes,  forming  impenetrable 
recesses  traversed  by  narrow  paths  and  bubbling  springs. 

This  is  the  Bois  of  the  children,  the  Bois  of  the  humble, 
the  little  forest  beneath  the  great  one.  And  Paul,  who  knew 
only  the  long  avenues  of  the  aristocratic  Parisian  prome- 
nades, the  sparkling  lake  perceived  from  the  depths  of  a 
carriage  or  from  the  top  of  a  coach  in  a  drive  back  from 
Longchamps,  was  astonished  to  see  the  deliciously  sheltered 
nook  to  which  his  friends  had  led  him.  It  was  on  the  banks 
of  a  pond  Iving  like  a  mirror  under  willow-trees,  covered 
with  water-lilies,  with  here  and  there  large  white  shimmering 
spaces  where  sunbeams  fell  and  lay  on  the  bright  surface. 

On  the  sloping  bank,  sheltered  by  the  boughs  of  trees 
where  the  leaves  were  already  thick,  they  sat  down  to  listen 

281 


The  Nabob 

to  the  reading  of  the  play,  and  the  pretty,  attentive  faces,  the 
skirts  lying  puffed  out  over  the  grass,  made  one  think  of 
some  Decameron,  more  innocent  and  chaste,  in  a  peaceful 
atmosphere.  To  complete  this  pleasant  country  scene,  two 
windmill-sails  seen  through  an  opening  in  the  branches  were 
revolving  over  in  the  direction  of  Suresnes,  while  of  the  daz- 
zling and  luxurious  vision  to  be  met  at  every  cross-roads 
in  the  Bois  there  reached  them  only  a  confused  and  perpet- 
ual murmur,  which  one  ended  by  ceasing  to  notice.  The 
poet's  voice  alone  rose  in  the  silence,  the  verses  fell  on  the 
air  tremblingly,  repeated  below  the  breath  by  other  moved 
lips,  and  stifled  sounds  of  approbation  greeted  them,  with 
shudders  at  the  tragic  passages.  Bonne  Maman  was  even 
seen  to  wipe  away  a  big  tear.  That  comes,  you  see,  from 
having  no  embroidery  in  one's  hand ! 

His  first  work !  That  was  what  the  Revolt  was  for  Andre, 
that  first  work  always  too  exuberant  and  ornate,  into  which 
the  author  throws,  to  begin  with,  whole  arrears  of  ideas 
and  opinions,  pent  up  like  the  waters  of  a  river-lock ;  that 
first  work  which  is  often  the  richest  if  not  the  best  of  its 
writer's  productions.  As  for  the  fate  that  awaited  it,  no  one 
could  predict  it ;  and  the  uncertainty  that  hovered  over  the 
reading  of  the  drama  added  to  its  own  emotion  that  of  each 
auditor,  the  hopes,  all  arrayed  in  white,  of  Mile.  Elise,  the 
fantastic  hallucinations  of  M.  Joyeuse,  and  the  more  posi- 
tive desires  of  Aline  as  she  installed  in  advance  the  modest 
fortune  of  her  sister  in  the  nest  of  an  artist's  household, 
beaten  by  the  winds  but  envied  by  the  crowd. 

Ah,  if  one  of  those  idle  people,  taking  a  turn  for  the 
hundredth  time  round  the  lake,  overwhelmed  by  the  mo- 
notony of  his  habitual  promenade,  had  come  and  parted  the 
branches,  how  surprised  he  would  have  been  at  this  picture ! 
But  would  he  ever  have  suspected  how  much  passion,  how 
many  dreams,  what  poetry  and  hope  there  could  be  con- 
tained in  that  little  green  corner,  hardly  larger  than  the 
shadow  a  fern  throws  on  the  moss? 

"  You  were  right ;  I  did  not  know  the  Bois,"  said  Paul 
in  a  low  voice  to  Aline,  who  was  leaning  on  his  arm. 

They  were  following  a  narrow  path  overarched  by  the 

282 


The  Apparition 

boughs  of  trees,  and  as  they  talked  were  moving  forward 
at  a  quick  pace,  well  in  advance  of  the  others.  It  was  not, 
how'ever,  pere  Kontzen's  terrace  nor  his  appetizing  fried 
dishes  that  drew  them  on.  No;  the  beautiful  lines  which 
they  had  just  heard  had  carried  them  away,  lifting  them  to 
great  heights,  and  they  had  not  yet  come  down  to  earth 
again.  They  walked  straight  on  towards  the  ever-retreating 
end  of  the  road,  which  opened  out  at  its  extremity  into  a 
luminous  glory,  a  mass  of  sunbeams,  as  if  all  the  sunshine 
of  that  beautiful  day  lay  waiting  for  them  where  it  had  fallen 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  wood.  Never  had  Paul  felt  so  happy. 
That  light  arm  that  lay  on  his  arm,  that  child's  step  by 
which  his  own  was  guided,  these  alone  would  have  made  life 
sweet  and  pleasant  to  him,  no  less  than  this  walk  over  the 
mossy  turf  of  a  green  path.  He  would  have  told  the  girl 
so,  simply,  as  he  felt  it,  had  he  not  feared  to  alarm  that  con- 
fidence W'hich  Aline  placed  in  him,  no  doubt  because  of  the 
sentiments  which  she  knew  he  possessed  for  another  woman, 
and  which  seemed  to  hold  at  a  distance  from  them  every 
thought  of  love. 

Suddenly,  right  before  them,  against  the  bright  back- 
ground, a  group  of  persons  riding  on  horseback  came  in 
sight,  at  first  vague  and  indistinct,  then  appearing  as  a  man 
and  a  woman,  handsomely  mounted,  and  entering  the  mys- 
terious path  among  the  bars  of  gold,  the  leafy  shadows,  the 
thousand  dots  of  light  with  which  the  ground  w^as  strewn, 
and  which,  displaced  by  their  progress  as  they  cantered 
along,  rose  and  covered  them  with  flowery  patterns  from 
the  chests  of  the  horses  to  the  blue  veil  of  the  lady  rider. 
They  came  along  slowly,  capriciously,  and  the  two  young 
people,  who  had  drawn  back  into  the  copse,  could  see  pass 
close  by  them,  with  a  clinking  of  bits  proudly  shaken  and 
white  with  foam  as  though  after  a  furious  gallop,  two  splen- 
did animals  carrying  a  pair  of  human  beings  brought  very 
near  together  by  the  narrowing  of  the  path  ;  he,  supporting 
with  one  arm  the  supple  figure  moulded  in  a  dark  cloth  habit ; 
she,  with  a  hand  resting  on  the  shoulder  of  her  cavalier  and 
her  small  head  seen  in  retreating  profile  beneath  the  half- 
dropped  tulle  of  her  veil,  resting  on  it  tenderly.    This  em- 

283 


The  Nabob 

brace,  half  disturbed  by  the  impatience  of  the  horses,  that 
kiss  on  which  their  reins  became  confused,  that  passion 
which  stalked  in  broad  day  through  the  Bois  with  so  great 
a  contempt  for  public  opinion,  would  have  been  enough  to 
betray  the  duke  and  Felicia,  if  the  haughty  and  charming 
mien  of  the  lady  and  the  aristocratic  ease  of  her  companion, 
his  pallor  slightly  tinged  with  colour  as  the  result  of  his 
ride  and  of  Jenkins's  miraculous  pearls,  had  not  already  be- 
trayed them. 

It  was  not  an  extraordinary  thing  to  meet  Mora  in  the 
Bois  on  a  Sunday.  Like  his  master,  he  loved  to  show  him- 
self to  the  Parisians,  to  advertise  his  popularity  with  all 
sections  of  the  public ;  and  then  the  duchess  never  accom- 
panied him  on  that  day,  and  he  could  make  a  halt  quite  at 
his  ease  in  that  little  villa  of  Saint- James,  known  to  all 
Paris,  whose  red  towers,  outlined  among  the  trees,  school- 
boys used  to  point  out  to  each  other  in  whispers.  But  only 
a  mad  woman,  a  daring  affronter  of  society  like  this  Felicia, 
could  have  dreamt  of  advertising  herself  like  this,  with  the 
loss  of  her  reputation  forever.  A  sound  of  hoofs  dying  away 
in  the  distance,  of  shrubs  brushed  in  passing ;  a  few  plants 
that  had  been  pressed  down  and  were  straightening  them- 
selves again  ;  branches  pushed  out  of  the  way  resuming  their 
places — that  was  all  that  remained  of  the  apparition. 

"  You  saw  ?  "  said  Paul,  speaking  first. 

She  had  seen,  and  she  had  understood,  notwithstanding 
the  candour  of  her  innocence,  for  a  blush  spread  over  her 
features,  one  of  those  feelings  of  shame  experienced  for 
the  faults  of  those  we  love. 

"  Poor  Felicia !  "  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  pitying  not 
only  the  unhappy  woman  who  had  just  passed  them,  but 
also  him  whom  this  defection  must  have  smitten  to  the  very 
heart.  The  truth  is  that  Paul  de  Gery  had  felt  no  surprise  at 
this  meeting,  which  justified  previous  suspicions  and  the 
instinctive  aversion  which  he  had  felt  for  Felicia  at  their 
dinner  some  days  before.  But  he  found  it  pleasant  to  be 
pitied  by  Aline,  to  feel  the  compassion  in  that  voice  be- 
coming more  tender,  in  that  arm  leaning  upon  his.  Like 
children  who  pretend  to  be  ill  for  the  sake  of  the  pleasure  of 

284 


1  he   Apparition 

feeing  fondled  by  their  mother,  he  allowed  his  consoler  to 
strive  to  appease  his  grief,  speaking  to  him  of  his  brothers, 
of  the  Nabob,  and  of  his  forthcoming  trip  to  Tunis — a  tine 
country,  they  said,  "  You  must  write  to  us  often,  and  long 
letters  about  the  interesting  things  on  the  journey,  the 
place  you  stay  in.  For  one  can  see  those  who  are  far  away 
better  when  one  imagines  the  kind  of  place  they  are  inhab- 
iting." 

So  talking,  they  reached  the  end  of  the  bowered  path 
terminating  in  an  immense  open  glade  through  which  there 
moved  the  tumult  of  the  Bois,  carriages  and  riders  on  horse- 
back alternating  with  each  other,  and  the  crowd  at  that  dis- 
tance seeming  to  be  tramping  through  a  flaky  dust  which 
blended  it  into  a  single  confused  herd.  Paul  slackened  his 
pace,  emboldened  by  this  last  minute  of  solitude. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  am  thinking  of  ?  "  he  said,  taking 
Aline's  hand.  "  I  am  thinking  that  it  would  be  a  pleasure 
to  be  unhappy  so  as  to  be  comforted  by  you.  But  however 
precious  your  pity  may  be  to  me,  I  cannot  allow  you  to 
waste  your  compassion  on  an  imaginary  pain.  No,  my  heart 
is  not  broken,  but  more  alive,  on  the  contrary,  and  stronger. 
And  if  I  were  to  tell  you  what  miracle  it  is  that  has  pre- 
served it,  what  talisman " 

He  held  out  before  her  eyes  a  little  oval  frame  in  which 
was  set  a  simple  profile,  a  pencil  outline  wherein  she  recog- 
nised herself,  surprised  to  see  herself  so  pretty,  reflected,  as 
it  were,  in  the  magic  mirror  of  Love,  Tears  came  into  her 
eyes  without  her  knowing  the  reason,  an  open  spring  whose 
stream  beat  within  her  chaste  breast.    He  continued : 

"  This  portrait  belongs  to  me.  It  was  drawn  for  me. 
And  yet,  at  the  moment  of  starting  on  this  journey  I  have 
a  scruple.  I  do  not  wish  to  have  it  except  from  yourself. 
Take  it,  then,  and  if  you  find  a  worthier  friend,  some  one 
who  loves  you  with  a  love  deeper  and  more  loyal  than  mine, 
I  am  willing  that  you  should  give  it  to  him." 

She  had  regained  her  composure,  and  looking  de  Gery 
full  in  the  face  with  a  serious  tenderness,  she  said: 

"  If  I  listened  only  to  my  heart,  I  should  feel  no  hesita- 
don  about  my  reply :  for,  if  vou  love  me  as  you  say,  I  am 

285 


The  Nabob 

sure  that  I  love  you  too.  But  I  am  not  free ;  I  am  not  alone 
in  the  world.     Look  yonder." 

She  pointed  to  her  father  and  her  sisters,  who  were 
beckoning  to  them  in  the  distance  and  hastening  to  come  up 
with  them. 

"  Well,  and  I  myself?  "  answered  Paul  quickly.  "  Have 
I  not  similar  duties,  similar  responsibilities?  We  are  like 
two  widowed  heads  of  families.  Will  you  not  love  mine  as 
much  as  I  love  yours  ?  " 

"  True  ?  is  it  true  ?  You  will  let  me  stay  with  them  ? 
I  shall  be  Aline  for  you,  and  Bonne  Maman  for  all  our  chil- 
dren? Oh!  then,"  exclaimed  the  dear  creature,  beaming 
with  joy,  "  there  is  my  portrait — I  give  it  to  you !  And  all 
my  soul  with  it,  too,  and  forever." 


286 


XVIII 

THE     JENKINS     PEARLS 

About  a  week  after  his  adventure  with  Moessard,  that 
new  complication  in  the  terrible  muddle  of  his  affairs,  Jan- 
soulet,  on  leaving  the  Chamber,  one  Thursday,  ordered  his 
coachman  to  drive  him  to  Mora's  house.  He  had  not  paid 
a  visit  there  since  the  scuffle  in  the  Rue  Royale,  and  the  idea 
of  finding  himself  in  the  duke's  presence  gave  him,  through 
his  thick  skin,  something  of  the  panic  that  agitates  a  boy 
on  his  way  upstairs  to  see  the  head-master  after  a  fight  in 
the  schoolroom.  However,  the  embarrassment  of  this  first 
interview  had  to  be  gone  through.  They  said  in  the  com- 
mittee-rooms that  Le  Merquier  had  completed  his  report, 
a  masterpiece  of  logic  and  ferocity,  that  it  meant  an  invalida- 
tion, and  that  he  was  bound  to  carry  it  with  a  high  hand  un~ 
less  Mora,  so  powerful  in  the  Assembly,  should  himself  inter- 
vene and  give  him  his  word  of  command.  A  serious  matter, 
and  one  that  made  the  Nabob's  cheeks  flush,  while  in  the 
curved  mirrors  of  his  brougham  he  studied  his  appearance, 
his  courtier's  smiles,  trying  to  think  out  a  way  of  effecting 
a  brilliant  entry,  one  of  those  strokes  of  good-natured 
effrontery  which  had  brought  him  fortune  with  Ahmed,  and 
which  served  him  likewise  in  his  relations  with  the  French 
ambassador.  All  this  accompanied  by  beatings  of  the  heart 
and  by  those  shudders  between  the  shoulder-blades  which 
precede  decisive  actions,  even  when  these  are  settled  within 
a  gilded  chariot. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  mansion  by  the  river,  he  was 
much  surprised  to  notice  that  the  porter  on  the  quay,  as  on 
the  days  of  great  receptions,  was  sending  carriages  up  the 
Rue  de  Lille,  in  order  to  keep  a  door  free  for  those  leaving. 
Rather  anxious,  he  wondered,  "  What  is  there  going  on  ? " 

287 


The  Nabob 

Perhaps  a  concert  given  by  the  duchess,  a  charity  bazaar, 
some  festivity  from  which  Mora  might  have  excluded  him 
on  account  of  the  scandal  of  his  last  adventure.  And  this 
anxiety  w^as  augmented  still  further  when  Jansoulet,  after 
having  passed  across  the  principal  court-yard  amid  a  din  of 
slamming  doors  and  a  dull  and  continuous  rumble  of  wheels 
over  the  sand,  found  himself — after  ascending  the  steps — 
in  the  immense  entrance-hall  filled  by  a  crowd  which  did  not 
extend  beyond  any  of  the  doors  leading  to  the  rooms ;  cen- 
tring its  anxious  going  and  coming  around  the  porter's 
table,  where  all  the  famous  names  of  fashionable  Paris  were 
being  inscribed.  It  seemed  as  though  a  disastrous  gust  of 
wind  had  gone  through  the  house,  carrying  ofi.  a  little  of  its 
calm,  and  allowing  disquiet  and  danger  to  filter  into  its 
comfort. 

"  What  a  misfortune  !  " 

"  Ah !  it  is  terrible." 

"  And  so  suddenly !  " 

Such  were  the  remarks  that  people  were  exchanging  as 
they  met. 

An  idea  flashed  into  Jansoulet's  mind : 

"  Is  the  duke  ill  ?  "  he  inquired  of  a  servant. 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  he  is  dying !  He  will  not  live  through 
the  night !  " 

If  the  roof  of  the  palace  had  fallen  in  upon  his  head  he 
would  not  have  been  more  utterly  stunned.  Red  lights 
flashed  before  his  eyes,  he  tottered,  and  let  himself  drop  into 
a  seat  on  a  velvet-covered  bench  beside  the  great  cage  of 
monkeys.  The  animals,  over-excited  by  all  this  bustle,  sus- 
pended by  their  tails,  by  their  little  long-thumbed  hands, 
were  hanging  to  the  bars  in  groups,  and  came,  inquisitive 
and  frightened,  to  make  the  most  ludicrous  grimaces  at  this 
big,  stupefied  man  as  he  sat  staring  at  the  marble  floor,  re- 
peating aloud  to  himself,  "  I  am  ruined  !  I  am  ruined !  " 

The  duke  was  dying.  He  had  been  seized  suddenly  with 
illness  on  the  Sunday  after  his  return  from  the  Bois.  He 
had  felt  intolerable  burnings  in  the  bowels,  which  passed 
through  his  whole  body,  searing  as  with  a  red-hot  iron,  and 
alternating  with  a  cold  lethargy  and  long  periods  of  coma. 

288 


The  Jenkins   Pearls 


Jenkins,  summoned  at  once,  did  not  say  much,  but  ordered 
certain  sedatives.  The  next  day  the  pains  came  on  again 
Avith  greater  intensity  and  followed  by  the  same  icy  torpor, 
also  more  accentuated,  as  if  life,  torn  up  by  the  roots,  were 
departing  in  violent  spasms.  Among  those  around  him 
none  was  greatly  concerned.  *'  The  day  after  a  visit  to  Saint- 
James  Villa,"  was  muttered  in  the  antechamber,  and  Jen- 
kins's handsome  face  preserved  its  serenity.  He  had  spoken 
to  two  or  three  people,  in  the  course  of  his  morning  rounds, 
of  the  duke's  indisposition,  and  that  so  lightly  that  nobody 
had  paid  much  attention  to  the  matter. 

Mora  himself,  notwithstanding  his  extreme  weakness, 
although  he  felt  his  head  absolutely  blank,  and,  as  he  said, 
"  not  an  idea  anywhere,"  w-as  far  from  suspecting  the  gravity 
of  his  condition.  It  was  only  on  the  third  day,  on  waking  in 
the  morning,  that  the  sight  of  a  tiny  stream  of  blood,  which 
Had  trickled  from  his  mouth  over  his  beard  and  the  stained 
pillow,  had  frightened  this  fastidious  man,  who  had  a  horror 
of  all  human  ills,  especially  sickness,  and  now  saw  it  arrive 
stealthily  with  its  pollutions,  its  weaknesses,  and  the  loss  of 
physical  self-control,  the  first  concession  made  to  death. 
Monpavon,  entering  the  room  behind  Jenkins,  surprised  the 
anxious  expression  of  the  great  seigneur  faced  by  the  ter- 
rible truth,  and  at  the  same  time  was  horrified  by  the  ravages 
made  in  a  few  hours  upon  Mora's  emaciated  face,  in  which 
all  the  wrinkles  of  age,  suddenly  evident,  were  mingled  with 
lines  of  suffering,  and  those  muscular  depressions  which  tell 
of  serious  internal  lesions.  He  took  Jenkins  aside,  while 
the  duke's  toilet  necessaries  were  carried  to  him — a  whole 
apparatus  of  crystal  and  silver  contrasting  with  the  yellow 
pallor  of  the  invalid. 

"  Look  here,  Jenkins,  the  duke  is  very  ill." 

"  I  am  afraid  so,"  said  the  Irishman,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  But  what  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  " 

"What  he  wanted,  parhlcu!"  answered  the  other  in  a 
fury.  "  One  cannot  be  young  at  his  age  with  impunity.  This 
intrigue  will  cost  him  dear." 

Some  evil  passion  was  getting  the  better  of  him  but  he 
subdued  it  immediately,   and,  puffing  out  his   checks  as 

289 


The  Nabob 

though  his  head  were  full  of  water,  he  sighed  deeply  as  he 
pressed  the  old  nobleman's  hands. 

"  Poor  duke !  poor  duke !  Ah,  my  friend,  I  am  most  un- 
happy !  " 

"  Take  care,  Jenkins,"  said  Monpavon  coldly,  disen- 
gaging his  hands,  "  you  are  assuming  a  terrible  responsi- 
bility. What!  is  the  duke  as  bad  as  that? — ps — ps — ps — 
Will  you  see  nobody?  You  have  arranged  no  consulta- 
tion ?  " 

The  Irishman  raised  his  hands  as  if  to  say,  "  What  good 
can  it  do  ?  " 

The  other  insisted.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  that 
Brisset,  Jousselin,  Bouchereau,  all  the  great  physicians 
should  be  called  in. 

"  But  you  will  frighten  him." 

De  Monpavon  expanded  his  chest,  the  one  pride  of  the 
old  broken-down  charger. 

"  Mon  cher,  if  you  had  seen  Mora  and  me  in  the  trenches 
of  Constantine — ps — ps.  Never  looked  away.  We  don't 
know  fear.  Give  notice  to  your  colleagues.  I  undertake 
to  inform  him." 

The  consultation  took  place  in  the  evening  with  great 
privacy,  the  duke  having  insisted  on  this  from  a  singular 
sense  of  shame  produced  by  his  illness,  by  that  suffering 
which  discrowned  him,  making  him  the  equal  of  other  men. 
Like  those  African  kings  who  hide  themselves  in  the  re- 
cesses of  their  palaces  to  die,  he  would  have  wished  that 
men  should  believe  him  carried  off,  transfigured,  become 
a  god.  Then,  too,  he  dreaded  above  all  things  the  expres- 
sions of  pity,  the  condolences,  the  compassion  with  which  he 
knew  that  his  sick-bed  would  be  surrounded ;  the  tears  be- 
cause he  suspected  them  to  be  hypocritical,  and  because,  if 
sincere,  they  displeased  him  still  more  by  their  grimacing 
ugliness. 

He  had  always  detested  scenes,  exaggerated  sentiments, 
everything  that  could  move  him  to  emotion  or  disturb  the 
harmonious  equilibrium  of  his  life.  Every  one  knew  this, 
and  the  order  was  to  keep  away  from  him  the  distress,  the 
misery,  which  from  one  end  of  France  to  the  other  flowed 

290 


The  Jenkins   Pearls 


towards  Mora  as  to  one  of  those  forest  refuges  lighted  dur- 
ing the  night  at  which  all  wanderers  may  knock.  Not  that 
he  was  hard  to  the  unfortunate ;  perhaps  he  may  have  been 
too  easily  moved  to  the  pity  which  he  regarded  as  an  inferior 
sentiment,  a  weakness  unworthy  of  the  strong,  and,  refusing 
it  to  others,  he  dreaded  it  for  himself,  for  the  integrity  of  his 
courage.  Nobody  in  the  palace,  then,  except  Monpavon 
and  Louis  the  valet  de  chambre,  knew  of  the  visit  of  those 
three  personages  introduced  mysteriously  into  the  Minister 
of  State's  apartments.  The  duchess  herself  was  ignorant  of 
it.  Separated  from  her  husband  by  the  barriers  frequently 
placed  by  the  political  and  fashionable  life  of  the  great 
world  between  married  people,  she  believed  him  slightly 
indisposed,  nervous  more  than  anything  else;  and  had  so 
little  suspicion  of  a  catastrophe  that  at  the  very  hour  when  the 
doctors  were  mounting  the  great,  dimly  lit  staircase  at  the 
other  end  of  the  palace,  her  private  apartments  were  being 
lit  up  for  a  girls'  dance,  one  of  those  bals  blancs  which  the 
ingenuity  of  the  idle  world  had  begun  to  make  fashionable 
in  Paris. 

This  consultation  was  like  all  others  :  solemn  and  sinister. 
Doctors  no  longer  wear  their  great  periwigs  of  the  time 
of  Moliere,  but  they  still  assume  the  same  gravity  of  the 
priests  of  Isis,  of  astrologers  bristling  with  cabalistic  formulas 
pronounced  with  sage  noddings  of  the  head,  to  which,  for 
comical  effect,  there  is  only  wanting  the  high  pointed  cap 
of  former  days.  In  this  case  the  scene  borrowed  an  impos- 
ing aspect  from  its  setting.  In  the  vast  bed-chamber,  trans- 
formed, heightened,  as  it  were,  in  dignity  by  the  immo- 
bility of  the  owner,  these  grave  figures  came  forward  round 
the  bed  on  which  the  light  was  concentrated,  illuminating 
amid  the  whiteness  of  the  linen  and  the  purple  of  the  hang- 
ings a  face  worn  into  hollows,  pale  from  lips  to  eyes,  but 
wrapped  in  serenity  as  in  a  veil,  as  in  a  shroud.  The  con- 
sultants spoke  in  low  tones,  cast  furtive  glances  at  each 
other,  or  exchanged  some  barbarous  word,  remaining  im- 
passive, without  even  a  frown.  But  this  mute  and  reticent 
expression  of  the  doctor  and  magistrate,  this  solemnity 
with  which  science  and  justice  hedge  themselves  about  to 

291  Vol.  18— N 


The  Nabob 

hide  their  frailty  or  ignorance,  had  no  power  to  move  the 
duke. 

Sitting  up  in  bed,  he  continued  to  talk  quietly,  with  the 
upward  glance  of  the  eye  in  which  it  seems  as  if  thought 
rises  before  it  finally  takes  wing,  and  Monpavon  coldly  fol- 
lowed his  cue,  hardening  himself  against  his  own  emotion, 
taking  from  his  friend  a  last  lesson  in  "  form  "  ;  while  Louis, 
in  the  background,  stood  leaning  against  the  door  leading 
to  the  duchess's  apartment,  the  spectre  of  a  silent  domestic 
in  whom  detached  indifference  is  a  duty. 

The  most  agitated,  nervous  man  present  was  Jenkins. 
Full  of  obsequious  attentions  for  his  "  illustrious  colleagues," 
as  he  called  them,  with  his  lips  pursed  up,  he  hung  round 
their  consultation  and  attempted  to  take  part  in  it ;  but  the 
colleagues  kept  him  at  a  distance  and  hardly  answered  him, 
as  Fagon — the  Fagon  of  Louis  XIV — might  have  addressed 
some  empiric  summoned  to  the  royal  bedside.  Old  Bou- 
chereau  especially  had  black  looks  for  the  inventor  of  the 
Jenkins  pearls.  Finally,  when  they  had  thoroughly  exam- 
ined and  questioned  their  patient,  they  retired  to  deliberate 
among  themselves  in  a  little  room  with  lacquered  ceilings 
and  walls,  filled  by  an  assortment  of  bric-d-brac  the  trivial- 
ity of  which  contrasted  strangely  with  the  importance  of  the 
discussion. 

Solemn  moment !  Anguish  of  the  accused  awaiting  the 
decision  of  his  judges — life,  death,  reprieve,  or  pardon! 

With  his  long,  white  hand  Mora  continued  to  stroke  his 
mustache  with  a  favourite  gesture,  to  talk  with  Monpavon 
of  the  club,  of  the  foyer  of  the  Varietcs,  asking  news  of  the 
Chamber,  how  matters  stood  with  regard  to  the  Nabob's 
election — all  this  coldly,  without  the  least  affectation.  Then, 
tired,  no  doubt,  or  fearing  lest  his  glance,  constantly  drawn 
to  that  curtain  opposite  him,  from  behind  which  the  sentence 
was  to  come  presently,  should  betray  the  emotion  which  he 
must  have  felt  in  the  depths  of  his  soul,  he  laid  his  head  on 
the  pillow,  closed  his  eyes,  and  did  not  open  them  again  until 
the  return  of  the  doctors.  Still  the  same  cold  and  sinister 
faces,  veritable  physiognomies  of  judges  having  on  their 
lips  the  terrible  decree  of  human  fate,  the  final  word  which 

292 


The  Jenkins   Pearls 


the  courts  pronounce  fearlessly,  but  which  the  doctors,  whose 
science  it  mocks,  elude,  and  express  in  periphrases. 

"  Well,  gentlemen,  what  says  the  faculty  ?  "  demanded 
the  sick  man. 

There  were  sundry  murmurs  of  hypocritical  encourage- 
ment, vague  recommendations  ;  then  the  three  learned  physi- 
cians hastened  to  depart,  eager  to  escape  from  the  responsi- 
bility of  this  disaster.  Monpavon  ruslied  after  them.  Jen- 
kins remained  at  the  bedside,  overwhelmed  by  the  cruel 
truths  which  he  had  just  heard  during  the  consultation.  In 
vain  had  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart,  quoted  his  famous 
motto ;  Bouchereau  had  not  spared  him.  It  was  not  the 
hrst  of  the  Irishman's  clients  whom  he  had  seen  thus  sud- 
denly collapse ;  but  he  fervently  hoped  that  the  death  of 
Mora  would  act  as  a  salutary  warning  to  the  world  of  fash- 
ion, and  that  the  prefect  of  police,  after  this  great  calamity, 
would  send  the  "  dealer  in  cantharides  "  to  retail  his  drugs 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Channel. 

The  duke  understood  immediately  that  neither  Jenkins 
nor  Louis  would  tell  him  the  true  issue  of  the  consultation. 
He  abstained,  therefore,  from  any  insistence  in  his  question- 
ings of  them,  submitted  to  their  pretended  confidence,  affect- 
ed even  to  share  it,  to  believe  the  most  hopeful  things  they 
announced  to  him.  But  when  Monpavon  returned,  he  sum- 
moned him  to  his  bedside,  and,  confronted  by  the  lie  visible 
even  beneath  the  make-up  of  the  decrepit  old  man,  re- 
marked : 

"  Oh,  you  know — no  humbug!  From  you  to  me,  truth. 
What  do  they  say  ?    I  am  in  a  very  liad  way,  eh  ?  " 

Monpavon  prefaced  his  reply  with  a  significant  silence ; 
then  brutally,  cynically,  for  fear  of  breaking  down  as  he 
spoke : 

"  Done  for,  my  poor  Augustus !  " 

The  duke  received  the  sentence  full  in  the  face  without 
flinching. 

"  Ah !  "  he  said  simply. 

He  pulled  his  mustache  with  a  mechanical  gesture,  but 
his  features  remained  motionless.  And  immediately  he 
made  up  his  mind. 

293 


The  Nabob 

That  the  poor  wretch  who  dies  in  a  hospital,  without 
home  or  family,  without  other  name  than  the  number  of  his 
bed,  that  he  should  accept  death  as  a  deliverance  or  bear 
it  as  his  last  trial ;  that  the  old  peasant  who  passes  away, 
bent  double,  worn  out,  in  his  dark  and  smoky  cellar,  that 
he  should  depart  without  regret,  savouring  in  advance  the 
taste  of  that  fresh  earth  which  he  has  so  many  times  dug 
over  and  over — that  is  intelligible.  And  yet  how  many, 
even  among  such,  cling  to  existence  despite  all  their  misery  ! 
how  many  there  are  who  cr}-,  holding  on  to  their  sordid 
furniture  and  to  their  rags,  "  I  don't  want  to  die !  "  and  de- 
part with  nails  broken  and  bleeding  from  that  supreme 
wrench.     But  here  there  was  nothing  of  the  kind. 

To  possess  all,  and  to  lose  all.    What  a  catastrophe ! 

In  the  first  silence  of  that  dreadful  moment,  while  he 
heard  the  sound  of  the  music  coming  faintly  from  the  duch- 
ess's ball  at  the  other  end  of  the  palace,  whatever  attached 
this  man  to  life,  power,  honour,  wealth,  all  that  splendour 
must  have  seemed  to  him  already  far  away  and  in  an  irrev- 
ocable past.  A  courage  of  a  quite  exceptional  temper 
must  have  been  required  to  bear  up  under  such  a  blow 
without  any  spur  of  personal  vanity.  No  one  was  present 
save  the  friend,  the  doctor,  the  servant,  three  intimates  ac- 
quainted with  all  his  secrets ;  the  lights  moved  back,  left 
the  bed  in  shadow,  and  the  dying  man  might  quite  well  have 
turned  his  face  to  the  wall  in  lamentation  of  his  own  fate 
without  being  noticed.  But  not  an  instant  of  weakness,  nor 
of  useless  demonstration.  Without  breaking  a  branch  of 
the  chestnut-trees  in  the  garden,  without  withering  a  flower 
on  the  great  staircase  of  the  palace,  his  footsteps  muffled 
on  the  thick  pile  of  the  carpets.  Death  had  opened  the  door 
of  this  man  of  power  and  signed  to  him  "  Come  !  "  And  he 
answered  simply,  "  I  am  ready."  The  true  exit  of  a  man 
of  the  world,  unforeseen,  rapid,  and  discreet. 

]\Ian  of  the  world !  Alora  was  nothing  if  not  that.  Pass- 
ing through  life  masked,  gloved,  breast-plated — breast-plate 
of  white  satin,  such  as  the  masters  of  fence  wear  on  great 
days ;  preserving  his  fighting  dress  immaculate  and  clean ; 
sacrificing  everything  to  that  irreproachable  exterior  which 

294 


The    Jenkins  Pearls 


with  him  did  duty  for  armour;  he  had  determined  on  his 
role  as  statesman  in  the  passage  from  the  drawing-room 
to  a  wider  scene,  and  made,  hideed,  a  statesman  of  the 
first  rank  on  the  strength  alone  of  his  quahties  as  a  man 
about  town,  tlie  art  of  hstening  and  of  smiHng,  knowledge 
of  men.  scepticism,  and  coolness.  That  coolness  did  not 
leave  him  at  the  supreme  moment. 

With  eyes  fixed  on  the  time,  so  short,  which  still  remained 
to  him — for  the  dark  visitor  was  in  a  hurry,  and  he  could 
feel  on  his  face  the  draught  from  the  door  which  he  had  not 
closed  behind  him — his  one  thought  now  w-as  to  occupy  the 
time  well,  to  satisfy  all  the  obligations  of  an  end  like  his, 
which  must  leave  no  devotion  unrecompensed  nor  compro- 
mise any  friend.  He  gave  a  list  of  certain  persons  whom  he 
wished  to  see  and  who  were  sent  for  immediately,  summoned 
the  head  of  his  cabinet,  and,  as  Jenkins  ventured  the  opinion 
ihat  it  was  a  great  fatigue  for  him,  said : 

"  Can  you  guarantee  that  I  shall  wake  to-morrow  morn- 
i!ig?  I  feel  strong  at  this  moment;  let  me  take  advantage 
of  it." 

Louis  inquired  whether  the  duchess  should  be  informed. 
The  duke,  before  replying,  listened  to  the  sounds  of  music 
that  reached  his  room  through  the  open  windows  from  the 
h'ttle  ball,  sounds  that  seemed  prolonged  in  the  night  on«an 
invisible  bow,  then  answered : 

"  Let  us  wait  a  little.    I  have  something  to  finish." 

They  brought  to  his  bedside  the  little  lacquered  table 
that  he  might  himself  sort  out  the  letters  which  were  to  be 
destroyed  ;  but  feeling  his  strength  give  way,  he  called  Mon- 
pavon. 

"  Burn  everything,"  said  he  to  him  in  a  faint  voice ; 
and  seeing  him  move  towards  the  fireplace,  where  a  fire 
was  burning  despite  the  warmth  of  the  season, 

"  No,"  he  added,  "  not  here.  There  arc  too  many  of 
them.    Some  one  might  come." 

Monpavon  took  up  the  writing-table,  which  was  not 
heavy,  and  signed  to  the  'Valet  de  chambrc  to  go  before  him 
with  a  light.    But  Jenkins  sprang  forward : 

"  Stay  here,  Louis ;  the  duke  may  want  you." 

295 


The  Nabob 

He  took  hold  of  the  lamp ;  and  moving  carefully  down 
the  whole  length  of  the  great  corridor,  exploring  the  wait- 
ing-rooms, the  galleries,  in  which  the  fireplaces  proved  to  be 
filled  with  artificial  plants  and  quite  emptied  of  ashes,  they 
wandered  like  spectres  in  the  silence  and  darkness  of  the 
vast  house,  alive  only  over  yonder  on  the  right,  where 
pleasure  was  singing  like  a  bird  on  a  roof  which  is  about  to 
fall  in  ruins. 

"  There  is  no  fire  anywhere.  What  is  to  be  done  with 
all  this  ?  "  they  asked  each  other  in  great  embarrassment. 
They  might  have  been  two  thieves  dragging  away  a  chest 
which  they  did  not  know  how  to  open.  At  last  Monpavon, 
out  of  patience,  walked  straight  to  a  door,  the  only  one 
which  they  had  not  yet  opened. 

"  Ma  foi,  so  much  the  worse !  Since  we  cannot  burn 
them,  we  will  drown  them.    Hold  the  light,  Jenkins." 

And  they  entered. 

Where  were  they?  Saint-Simon  relating  the  downfall 
of  one  of  those  sovereign  existences,  the  disarray  of  cere- 
monies, of  dignities,  of  grandeurs,  caused  by  death  and 
especially  by  sudden  death,  only  Saint-Simon  might  have 
found  words  to  tell  you.  With  his  delicate,  carefully  kept 
hands,  the  Marquis  de  Monpavon  did  the  pumping.  The 
other  passed  to  him  the  letters  after  tearing  them  into  small 
pieces,  packets  of  letters,  on  satin  paper,  tinted,  perfumed, 
adorned  with  crests,  coats  of  arms,  small  flags  with  devices, 
covered  with  handwritings,  fine,  hurried,  scrawling,  entwin- 
ing, persuasive ;  and  all  those  flimsy  pages  went  whirling 
one  over  the  other  in  eddying  streams  of  water  which  crum- 
pled them,  soiled  them,  washed  out  their  tender  inks  before 
allowing  them  to  disappear  with  a  gurgle  down  the  drain. 

They  were  love-letters  and  of  every  kind,  from  the  note 
of  the  adventuress,  "  /  saw  you  pass  yesterday  in  the  Bois, 
M.  le  Due,"  to  the  aristocratic  reproaches  of  the  last  mis- 
tress but  one,  and  the  complaints  of  ladies  deserted,  and  the 
page,  still  fresh,  of  recent  confidences.  Monpavon  was  in 
the  secret  of  all  these  mysteries — put  a  name  on  each  of 
them :  "  That  is  Mme.  Moor.  Hallo !  Mme.  d'Athis !  "  A 
confusion  of  coronets  and  initials,  of  caprices  and  old  hab- 

296 


The  Jenkins  Pearls 


its,  sullied  by  the  promiscuity  of  this  moment,  all  engulfed 
in  the  horrid  closet  by  the  light  of  a  lamp,  with  the  noise 
of  an  intermittent  gush  of  water,  departing  into  oblivion 
by  a  shameful  road.  Suddenly  Jenkins  paused  in  his  work 
of  destruction.  Two  satin-gray  letters  trembled  as  he  held 
them  in  his  fingers. 

"  Who  is  that?  "  asked  Monpavon,  noticing  the  unfamil- 
iar handwriting  and  the  Irishman's  nervous  excitement. 
"  Ah,  doctor,  if  you  want  to  read  them  all,  we  shall  never 
have  finished." 

Jenkins,  his  cheeks  flushed,  the  two  letters  in  his  hand, 
was  consumed  by  a  desire  to  carry  them  away,  to  pore 
over  them  at  his  ease,  to  martyrize  himself  with  delight 
by  reading  them,  perhaps  also  to  forge  out  of  this  cor- 
respondence a  weapon  for  himself  against  the  imprudent 
woman  who  had  signed  her  name.  But  the  rigorous  cor- 
rectness of  the  marquis  made  him  afraid.  How  could  he 
distract  his  attention — get  him  away  ?  The  opportunity  oc- 
curred of  its  own  accord.  Among  the  letters,  a  tiny  page 
written  in  a  senile  and  shaky  hand,  caught  the  attention 
of  the  charlatan,  who  said  with  an  ingenuous  air  :  "  Oh,  oh  1 
here  is  something  that  does  not  look  much  like  a  billet-doux. 
'  Mon  Due,  to  the  rescue — /  am  sinking!  The  Court  of 
Exchequer  has  once  more  stuck  its  nose  into  my  affairs.' " 

"What  are  you  reading  there?"  exclaimed  Monpavon 
abruptly,  snatching  the  letter  from  his  hands.  And  imme- 
diately, thanks  to  Mora's  negligence  in  thus  allowing  such 
private  letters  to  lie  about,  the  terrible  situation  in  which 
he  would  be  left  by  the  death  of  his  protector  returned  to 
his  mind.  In  his  grief,  he  had  not  yet  given  it  a  thought. 
He  told  himself  that  in  the  midst  of  all  his  preparations  for 
his  departure,  the  duke  might  quite  possibly  overlook  him; 
and,  leaving  Jenkins  to  complete  the  drowning  of  Don 
Juan's  casket  by  himself,  he  returned  precipitately  in  the 
direction  of  the  bed-chamber.  Just  as  he  was  on  the  point 
of  entering,  the  sound  of  a  discussion  held  him  back  behind 
the  lowered  door-curtain.  It  was  Louis's  voice,  tearful  like 
that  of  a  beggar  in  a  church-porch,  trying  to  move  the  duke 
to  pity  for  his  distress,  and  asking  permission  to  take  certain 

297 


The  Nabob 

bundles  of  bank-notes  that  lay  in  a  drawer.  Oh,  how  hoarse, 
utterly  wearied,  hardly  intelligible  the  answer,  in  which  there 
could  be  detected  the  effort  of  the  sick  man  to  turn  over  in 
his  bed,  to  bring  back  his  vision  from  a  far-off  distance 
already  half  in  sight : 

"  Yes,  yes ;  take  them.  But,  for  God's  sake,  let  me 
sleep — let  me  sleep !  " 

Drawers  opened,  closed  again,  a  short  and  panting 
breath.  Monpavon  heard  no  more  of  what  was  going  on, 
and  retraced  his  steps  without  entering.  The  ferocious 
rapacity  of  this  servant  had  set  his  pride  upon  its  guard. 
Anything  rather  than  degradation  to  such  a  point  as  that. 

The  sleep  which  Mora  craved  for  so  insistently — the 
lethargy,  to  be  more  accurate — lasted  a  whole  night,  and 
through  the  next  morning  also,  with  uncertain  wakings 
disturbed  by  terrible  sufferings  relieved  each  time  by  sopo- 
rifics. No  further  attempt  was  made  to  nurse  him  to  recov- 
ery ;  they  tried  only  to  soothe  his  last  moments,  to  help  him 
to  slip  painlessly  over  that  terrible  last  step.  His  eyes  had 
opened  again  during  this  time,  but  were  already  dimmed, 
fixed  in  the  void  on  floating  shadows,  vague  forms,  like  those 
a  diver  sees  quivering  in  the  uncertain  light  under  water. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  Thursday,  towards  three  o'clock, 
he  regained  complete  consciousness,  and  recognising  Mon- 
pavon, Cardailhac,  and  two  or  three  other  intimate  friends, 
he  smiled  to  them,  and  betrayed  in  a  sentence  his  only 
anxiety : 

"  What  do  they  say  about  it  in  Paris  ?  " 

They  said  many  things  about  it,  different  and  contradic- 
tory ;  but  very  certainly  he  was  the  only  subject  of  conver- 
sation, and  the  news  spread  through  the  town  since  the 
morning,  that  Mora  was  at  his  last  breath,  agitated  the 
streets,  the  drawing-rooms,  the  cafes,  the  workshops,  re- 
vived the  question  of  the  political  situation  in  newspaper 
ofifices  and  clubs,  even  in  porters'  lodges  and  on  the  tops 
of  omnibuses,  in  every  place  where  the  unfolded  public 
newspapers  commented  on  this  startling  rumour  of  the  day. 

Mora  was  the  most  brilliant  incarnation  of  the  Empire. 
One  sees  from  a  distance,  iiot  the  solid  or  insecure  base  of 

298 


The  Jenkins   Pearls 


the  building,  but  the  gilded  and  delicate  spire,  embellished, 
carved  into  hollow  tracery,  added  for  the  satisfaction  of  the 
age.  J\Iora  was  what  was  seen  in  France  and  throughout 
Europe  of  the  Empire.  If  he  fell,  the  monument  would  find 
itself  bereft  of  all  its  elegance,  split  as  by  some  long  and 
irreparable  crack.  And  how  many  lives  would  be  dragged 
dow^n  by  that  sudden  fall,  how  many  fortunes  undermined 
by  the  weakened  reverberations  of  the  catastrophe !  None 
so  completely  as  that  of  the  big  man  sitting  motionless  down- 
stairs, on  the  bench  in  the  monkey-house. 

For  the  Nabob,  this  death  was  his  own  death,  the  ruin, 
the  end  of  all  things.  He  was  so  deeply  conscious  of  it  that, 
when  he  entered  the  house,  on  learning  the  hopeless  condi- 
tion of  the  duke,  no  expression  of  pity,  no  regrets  of  any 
sort,  had  escaped  him,  only  the  ferocious  word  of  human 
egoism,  "  I  am  ruined !  "  And  this  word  kept  recurring 
to  his  lips ;  he  repeated  it  mechanically  each  time  that  he 
awoke  suddenly  afresh  to  all  the  horror  of  his  situation,  as 
in  those  dangerous  mountain  storms,  when  a  sudden  flash 
of  lightning  illumines  the  abyss  to  its  depths,  showing  the 
wounding  spurs  and  the  bushes  on  its  sides,  ready  to  tear 
and  scratch  the  man  who  should  fall. 

The  rapid  clairvoyance  which  accompanies  cataclysms 
spared  him  no  detail.  He  saw-  the  invalidation  of  his  elec- 
tion almost  certain,  now  that  Mora  would  no  longer  be  there 
to  plead  his  cause ;  then  the  consequences  of  the  defeat — 
bankruptcy,  poverty,  and  still  worse ;  for  when  these  incal- 
culable riches  collapse  they  always  bury  a  little  of  a  man's 
honour  beneath  their  ruins.  But  how  many  briers,  how 
many  thorns,  how  many  cruel  scratches  and  w^ounds  before 
arriving  at  the  end !  In  a  week  there  would  be  the  Schwal- 
bach  bills — that  is  to  say,  eight  hundred  thousand  francs — 
to  pay ;  indemnity  for  Moessard,  who  wanted  a  hundred 
thousand  francs,  or  as  the  alternative  he  would  apply  for 
the  permission  of  the  Chamber  to  prosecute  him  for  a  mis- 
demeanour, a  suit  still  more  sinister  instituted  by  the  fami- 
lies of  two  little  martyrs  of  Bethlehem  against  the  founders 
of  the  Society ;  and,  on  top  of  all,  the  complications  of  the 
Territorial  Bank.    There  was  one  solitary  hope,  the  mission 

299 


The  Nabob 

of  Paul  de  Gery  to  the  Bey,  but  so  vague,  so  chimerical,  so 
remote ! 

"  Ah,  I  am  ruined !    I  am  ruined !  " 

In  the  immense  entrance-hall  no  one  noticed  his  distress. 
Xhe  crowd  of  senators,  of  deputies,  of  councillors  of  state, 
all  the  high  officials  of  the  administration,  came  and  went 
around  him  without  seeing  him,  holding  mysterious  consul- 
tations with  uneasy  importance  near  the  two  fireplaces  of 
white  marble  which  faced  one  another.  So  many  ambi- 
tions disappointed,  deceived,  hurled  down,  met  in  this  visit 
in  extremis,  that  personal  anxieties  dominated  every  other 
preoccupation. 

The  faces,  strangely  enough,  expressed  neither  pity  nor 
grief,  rather  a  sort  of  anger.  All  these  people  seemed  to 
have  a  grudge  against  tthe  duke  for  dying,  as  though  he 
had  deserted  them.  One  heard  remarks  of  this  kind :  "  It 
is  not  surprising,  with  such  a  life  as  he  has  lived !  "  And 
looking  out  of  the  high  windows,  these  gentlemen  pointed 
out  to  each  other,  amid  the  going  and  coming  of  the  equi- 
pages in  the  court-yard,  the  drawing  up  of  some  little 
brougham  from  within  which  a  well-gloved  hand,  with  its 
lace  sleeve  brushing  the  sash  of  the  door,  would  hold  out  a 
card  with  a  corner  turned  back  to  the  footman. 

From  time  to  time  one  of  the  habitues  of  the  palace,  one 
of  those  whom  the  dying  man  had  summoned  to  his  bed- 
side, appeared  in  the  medley,  gave  an  order,  then  went 
away,  leaving  the  scared  expression  of  his  face  reflected 
on  twenty  others.  Jenkins  showed  himself  thus  for  a  mo- 
ment, with  his  cravat  untied,  his  waistcoat  unbuttoned,  his 
cufifs  crumpled,  in  all  the  disorder  of  the  battle  in  which  he 
was  engaged  upstairs  against  a  terrible  opponent.  He  was 
instantly  surrounded,  besieged  with  questions. 

Certainly  the  monkeys  flattening  their  short  noses 
against  the  bars  of  their  cage,  excited  by  the  unaccustomed 
tumult,  and  very  attentive  to  all  that  passed  about  them  as 
though  they  were  occupied  in  making  a  methodical  study  of 
human  hypocrisy,  had  a  magnificent  model  in  the  Irish  phy- 
sician. His  grief  was  superb,  a  splendid  grief,  masculine 
and  strong,  which  compressed  his  lips  and  made  him  pant. 

300 


The  Jenkins  Pearls 


"  The  agony  has  begun,"  he  said  mournfully.  "  It  is 
now  only  a  matter  of  hours." 

And  as  Jansoulet  came  towards  him,  he  said  to  him  em- 
phatically : 

"■  Ah,  my  friend,  what  a  man !  What  courage !  He 
has  forgotten  nobody.  Only  just  now  he  was  speaking  to 
me  of  you." 

"  Really  ?  " 

" '  The  poor  Nabob,'  said  he,  '  how  does  the  affair  of 
his  election  stand?  '  " 

And  that  was  all.    The  duke  had  added  no  further  word. 

Jansoulet  bowed  his  head.  What  had  he  been  hoping? 
Was  it  not  enough  that  at  such  a  moment  a  man  like  IMora 
had  given  him  a  thought  ?  He  returned  and  sat  down  on  his 
bench,  falling  back  into  the  stupor  which  had  been  galva- 
nized by  one  moment  of  mad  hope,  and  remained  until,  with- 
out his  noticing  it,  the  hall  had  become  nearly  deserted. 
He  did  not  remark  that  he  was  the  only  and  last  visitor 
left,  until  he  heard  the  men-servants  talking  aloud  in  the 
waning  light  of  the  evening: 

"  For  my  part,  I've  had  enough  of  it.     I  shall  leave 


service." 


"  I  shall  stay  on  with  the  duchess." 

And  these  projects,  these  arrangements  some  hours  in 
advance  of  death,  condemned  the  noble  duke  still  more 
surely  than  the  faculty. 

The  Nabob  understood  then  that  it  was  time  for  him  to 
go,  but,  first,  he  wished  to  inscribe  his  name  in  the  visitors' 
book  kept  by  the  porter.  He  went  up  to  the  table,  and 
leaned  over  it  to  see  distinctly.  The  page  was  full.  A  blank 
space  was  pointed  out  to  him  below  a  signature  in  a  very 
small,  spidery  hand,  such  as  is  frequently  written  by  very  fat 
fingers,  and  when  he  had  signed,  it  proved  to  be  the  name  of 
Hemerlingue  dominating  his  own,  crushing  it,  clasping  it 
round  with  an  insidious  flourish.  Superstitious,  like  the  true 
Latin  he  was,  he  was  struck  by  this  omen,  and  went  away 
frightened  by  it. 

Where  should  he  dine  ?  At  the  club  ?  Place  Vendome  ? 
To  hear  still  more  talk  of  this  death  that  obsessed  him  !    He 

301 


The  Nabob 

preferred  to  go  somewhere  by  chance,  walking  straight  be- 
fore him,  hke  all  those  who  are  a  prey  to  some  fixed  idea 
which  they  hope  to  conjure  away  by  rapid  movement.  The 
evening  was  warm,  the  air  full  of  sweet  scents.  He  walked 
along  the  quays,  and  reached  the  trees  of  the  Cours-la- 
Reine,  then  found  himself  breathing  that  air  in  which  is 
mingled  the  freshness  of  watered  roads  and  the  odour  of 
fine  dust  so  characteristic  of  summer  evenings  in  Paris.  At 
that  hour  all  was  deserted.  Here  and  there  chandeliers 
were  being  lighted  for  the  concerts,  blazes  of  gaslight  flared 
among  the  green  trees.  A  sound  of  glasses  and  plates  from 
a  restaurant  gave  him  the  idea  of  going  in. 

The  strong  man  was  hungry  despite  all  his  troubles. 
He  was  served  under  a  veranda  with  glazed  walls  backed  by 
shrubs,  and  facing  the  great  porch  of  the  Palais  de  ITn- 
dustrie,  where  the  duke,  in  the  presence  of  a  thousand  peo- 
ple, had  greeted  him  as  a  deputy.  The  refined,  aristocratic 
face  rose  before  his  memory  in  the  darkness  of  the  sky, 
while  he  could  see  it  also  as  it  lay  over  yonder  on  the  fune- 
real whiteness  of  the  pillow ;  and  suddenly,  as  he  ran  his 
eye  over  the  bill  of  fare  presented  to  him  by  the  waiter,  he 
noticed  w'ith  stupefaction  that  it  bore  the  date  of  the  20th 
of  May.  So  a  month  had  not  elapsed  since  the  opening  of 
the  exhibition.  It  seemed  to  him  like  ten  years  ago.  Grad- 
ually, however,  the  warmth  of  the  meal  cheered  him.  In 
the  corridor  he  could  hear  waiters  talking ; 

"  Has  anybody  heard  news  of  Mora  ?  It  appears  he  is 
very  ill." 

"  Nonsense !  He  will  get  over  it,  you  will  see.  Men 
like  him  get  all  the  luck." 

And  so  deeply  is  hope  implanted  in  the  human  soul,  that, 
despite  what  Jansoulet  had  himself  seen  and  heard,  these 
few  words,  helped  by  two  bottles  of  burgundy  and  a  few 
glasses  of  cognac,  sufficed  to  restore  his  courage.  After 
all,  people  had  been  know-n  to  recover  from  illnesses  quite  as 
desperate.  Doctors  often  exaggerate  the  ill  in  order  to  get 
more  credit  afterward  for  curing  it.  "  Suppose  I  called  to 
inquire."  He  made  his  way  back  towards  the  house,  full 
of  illusion,  trusting  to  that  chance  which  had  served  him 

302 


The  Jenkins  Pearls 


so  many  times  in  his  life.  And  indeed  the  aspect  of  tKe 
princely  abode  had  something  about  it  to  fortify  his  hope. 
It  presented  the  reassuring  and  tranquil  appearance  of  or- 
dinary evenings,  from  the  avenue  with  its  lights  at  long 
intervals,  majestic  and  deserted,  to  the  steps  where  stood 
waiting  a  huge  carriage  of  old-fashioned  shape. 

In  the  antechamber,  peaceful  also,  two  enormous  lamps 
were  burning.  A  footman  slept  in  a  corner ;  the  porter  was 
reading  before  the  fireplace.  He  looked  at  the  new  arrival 
over  his  spectacles,  made  no  remark,  and  Jansoulet  dared 
ask  no  question.  Piles  of  newspapers  lying  on  the  table 
in  their  wrappers,  addressed  to  the  duke,  seemed  to  have 
been  thrown  there  as  useless.  The  Nabob  took  up  one  of 
them,  opened  it,  and  tried  to  read,  but  quick  and  gliding 
steps,  a  muttered  chanting,  made  him  lift  his  eyes,  and  he 
saw  a  white-haired  and  bent  old  man,  decked  out  in  lace 
as  though  he  had  been  an  altar,  who  was  praying  aloud  as 
he  departed  with  long  priestly  stride,  his  ample  red  cassock 
spreading  in  a  train  over  the  carpet.  It  was  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Paris,  accompanied  by  two  assistants.  The  vision, 
with  its  murmur  as  of  an  icy  north  wind,  passed  quickly 
before  Jansoulet,  plunged  into  the  great  carriage  and  dis- 
appeared, carrying  away  with  it  his  last  hope. 

"  Doing  the  right  thing,  mon  cher,"  remarked  Mon- 
pavon,  appearing  suddenly  at  his  side.  "  Mora  is  an  epi- 
curean, brought  up  in  the  ideas  of  how  do  you  say — ^you 
know — what  is  it  you  call  it?  Eighteenth  century.  Very 
bad  for  the  masses,  if  a  man  in  his  position — ps — ps — ps — 
Ah,  he  is  the  master  who  sets  us  all  an  example — ps — ps — 
irreproachable  manners !  " 

"Then,  it  is  all  over?"  said  Jansoulet,  overwhelmed. 
"  There  is  no  longer  any  hope?  " 

Monpavon  signed  to  him  to  listen.  A  carriage  rolled 
heavily  along  the  avenue  on  the  quay.  The  visitors'  bell 
rang  sharply  several  times  in  succession.  The  marquis 
counted  aloud :  "  One,  two,  three,  four."  At  the  fifth  he 
rose: 

"  No  more  hope  now.  Here  comes  the  other,"  said  he, 
alluding  to  the  Parisian  superstition  that  a  visit  from  the 

303 


The  Nabob 

sovereign  was  always  fatal  to  dying  persons.  From  every 
side  the  lackeys  hastened  up,  opened  the  doors  wide,  ranged 
themselves  in  line,  while  the  porter,  his  hat  cocked  forward 
and  his  staff  resounding  on  the  marble  floor,  announced  the 
passage  of  two  august  shadows,  of  whom  Jansoulet  only 
caught  a  confused  glimpse  behind  the  liveried  domestics, 
but  whom  he  saw  beyond  a  long  perspective  of  open  doors 
climbing  the  great  staircase,  preceded  by  a  footman  bearing 
a  candelabrum.  The  woman  ascended,  erect  and  proud,  en- 
veloped in  a  black  Spanish  mantilla ;  the  man  supported  him- 
self by  the  baluster,  slower  in  his  movements  and  tired,  the 
collar  of  his  light  overcoat  turned  up  above  a  rather  bent 
back,  which  was  shaken  by  a  convulsive  sob. 

"  Let  us  be  off.  Nabob.  Nothing  more  to  be  done  here," 
said  the  old  beau,  taking  Jansoulet  by  the  arm  and  drawing 
him  outside.  He  paused  on  the  threshold,  with  raised  hand, 
making  a  little  gesture  of  farewell  in  the  direction  of  the  man 
who  lay  dying  upstairs.  "  Good-bye,  old  fellow !  "  The 
gesture  and  the  tone  were  polite,  irreproachable,  but  the 
voice  trembled  a  little. 

The  club  in  the  Rue  Royale,  which  was  famous  for  its 
gambling  parties,  rarely  saw  one  so  desperate  as  the  gaming 
of  that  night.  It  commenced  at  eleven  o'clock  and  was 
still  going  on  at  five  in  the  morning.  Enormous  sums  were 
scattered  over  the  green  cloth,  changing  hands,  moved  now 
to  one  side,  now  to  the  other,  heaped  up,  distributed,  re- 
gained. Fortunes  were  engulfed  in  this  monster  play,  at 
the  end  of  which  the  Nabob,  who  had  started  it  to  forget 
his  terrors  in  the  hazards  of  chance,  after  singular  alterna- 
tions and  runs  of  luck  enough  to  turn  the  hair  of  a  be- 
ginner white,  retired  with  winnings  amounting  to  five 
hundred  thousand  francs.  On  the  boulevard  the  next  day 
they  said  five  millions,  and  everybody  cried  out  on  the  scan- 
dal, especially  the  Messenger,  three-quarters  filled  by  an 
article  against  certain  adventurers  tolerated  in  the  clubs, 
and  who  cause  the  ruin  of  the  most  honourable  families. 

Alas !  what  Jansoulet  had  won  hardly  represented 
enough  to  meet  the  first  Schwalbach  bills. 

During  this  wild  play,  of  which  Mora  was,  however, 

304 


The    Jenkins  Pearls 


the  involuntary  cavise,  and,  as  it  were,  the  soul,  his  name 
was  not  once  uttered.  Neither  Cardailhac  nor  Jenkins  put 
in  an  appearance.  Monpavon  had  taken  to  his  bed,  stricken 
more  deeply  than  he  washed  it  to  be  thought.  Nobody  had 
any  news. 

"  Is  he  dead?  "  Jansoulet  said  to  himself  as  he  left  the 
club ;  and  he  felt  a  desire  to  make  a  call  to  inquire  before 
going  home.  It  was  no  longer  hope  that  urged  him,  but 
that  sort  of  morbid  and  nervous  curiosity  which  after  a 
great  fire  leads  the  smitten  unfortunate  people,  ruined  and 
homeless,  back  to  the  wreck  of  their  dwellings. 

Although  it  was  still  very  early,  and  a  pink  mist  of  dawn 
hung  in  the  sky,  the  whole  mansion  stood  open  as  if  for  a 
solemn  departure.  The  lamps  still  smoked  over  the  fire- 
places, dust  floated  about  the  rooms.  The  Nabob  advanced 
amid  an  inexplicable  solitude  of  desertion  to  the  first  floor, 
where  at  last  he  heard  a  voice  he  knew,  that  of  Cardailhac, 
who  was  dictating  names,  and  the  scratching  of  pens  over 
paper.  The  clever  stage-manager  of  the  festivities  in  hon- 
our of  the  Bey  was  organizing  with  the  same  ardour  the 
funeral  pomps  of  the  Due  de  Mora.  What  activity!  His 
excellency  had  died  during  the  evening ;  when  morning 
came  already  ten  thousand  letters  were  being  printed,  and 
everybody  in  the  house  who  could  hold  a  pen  was  busy  with 
the  writing  of  the  addresses.  Without  passing  through 
these  improvised  offices,  Jansoulet  reached  the  waiting- 
room,  ordinarily  so  crowded,  to-day  with  all  its  arm-chairs 
empty.  In  the  middle,  on  a  table,  lay  the  hat,  cane,  and 
gloves  of  M.  le  Due,  always  ready  in  case  he  should  go  out 
unexpectedly,  so  as  to  save  him  even  the  trouble  of  giving 
an  order.  The  objects  that  we  always  wear  keep  about 
them  something  of  ourselves.  The  curve  of  the  hat  sug- 
gested that  of  the  mustache ;  the  light-coloured  gloves  were 
ready  to  grasp  the  supple  and  strong  Chinese  cane ;  the  total 
effect  was  one  of  life  and  energy,  as  if  the  duke  were  about 
to  appear,  stretch  out  his  hand  while  talking,  take  up  those 
things,  and  go  out. 

Oh,  no,  M,  le  Due  was  not  going  out.  Jansoulet  had 
but  to  approach  the  half-open  door  of  the  bed-chamber  to 

305 


The  Nabob 

see  on  the  bed,  raised  three  steps — always  the  platform  even 
after  death — a  rigid,  haughty  form,  a  motionless  and  aged 
profile,  metamorphosed  by  the  beard's  growth  of  a  night, 
quite  gray ;  near  the  sloping  pillow,  kneeling  and  burying 
her  head  in  the  white  drapery,  was  a  woman,  whose  fair  hair 
lay  in  rippled  disorder,  ready  to  fall  beneath  the  shears  of 
eternal  widowhood ;  then  a  priest  and  a  nun,  gathered  in  this 
atmosphere  of  watch  by  the  dead,  in  which  are  mingled  the 
fatigue  of  sleepless  nights  and  the  murmurs  of  prayer. 

The  chamber  in  which  so  many  ambitions  had  strength- 
ened their  wings,  so  many  hopes  and  disappointments  had 
throbbed,  was  wholly  given  over  now  to  the  peace  of  pass- 
ing Death.  Not  a  sound,  not  a  sigh.  Only,  notwithstanding 
the  early  hour,  away  yonder,  towards  the  Pont  de  la  Con- 
corde, a  little  clarinet,  shrill  and  sharp,  could  be  heard  above 
the  rumbling  of  the  first  vehicles  ;  but  its  exasperating  mock- 
ery was  henceforth  lost  on  him  who  lay  there  asleep,  showing 
to  the  terrified  Nabob  an  image  of  his  own  destiny,  chilled, 
discoloured,  ready  for  the  tomb. 

Others  besides  Jansoulet  found  that  death-chamber 
lugubrious :  the  windows  wide  open,  the  night  and  the 
wind  entering  freely  from  the  garden,  making  a  strong 
draught ;  a  human  form  on  a  table ;  the  body,  which  had 
just  been  embalmed ;  the  hollow  skull  filled  with  a  sponge, 
the  brain  in  a  basin.  The  weight  of  this  brain  of  a  statesman 
was  truly  extraordinary.  It  weighed — it  weighed — the 
newspapers  of  the  period  mentioned  the  figure.  But  who 
remembers  it  to-day? 


306 


XIX 

THE   FUNERAL 

"  Don't  weep,  my  fairy,  you  rob  me  of  all  my  courage. 
Come,  you  will  be  a  great  deal  happier  when  you  no  longer 
have  your  terrible  demon.  You  will  go  back  to  Fontaine- 
bleau  and  look  after  your  chickens.  The  ten  thousand 
francs  from  Brahim  will  help  to  get  you  settled  down.  And 
then,  don't  be  afraid,  once  you  are  over  there  I  shall  send 
you  money.  Since  this  Bey  wants  to  have  sculpture  done 
by  me,  he  will  have  to  pay  for  it,  as  you  may  imagine.  I 
shall  return  rich,  rich.    Who  knows?    Perhaps  a  sultana." 

"  Yes,  you  will  be  a  sultana,  but  I — I  shall  be  dead  and  I 
shall  never  see  you  again."  And  the  good  Crenmitz  in  de- 
spair huddled  herself  into  a  corner  of  the  cab  so  that  she 
should  not  be  seen  weeping. 

Felicia  was  leaving  Paris.  She  was  trying  to  escape  the 
horrible  sadness,  the  sinister  disgust  into  which  Mora's  death 
had  thrown  her.  What  a  terrible  blow  for  the  proud  girl! 
Ennui,  pique,  had  thrown  her  into  this  man's  arms ;  she 
had  given  him  pride — modesty — all ;  and  now  he  had  car- 
ried all  away  with  him,  leaving  her  tarnished  for  life,  a  tear- 
less widow,  without  mourning  and  without  dignity.  Two 
or  three  visits  to  Saint-James  Villa,  a  few  evenings  in  the 
back  of  a  box  at  some  small  theatre,  behind  the  curtain  that 
shelters  forbidden  and  shameful  pleasure,  these  were  tlie 
only  memories  left  to  her  by  this  liaison  of  a  fortnight,  this 
loveless  intrigue  wherein  her  pride  had  not  found  even  the 
satisfaction  of  the  commotion  caused  by  a  big  scandal.  The 
useless  and  indelible  stain,  the  stupid  fall  of  a  woman  who 
does  not  know  how  to  walk  and  who  is  embarrassed  in  her 
rising  by  the  ironical  pity  of  the  passers-by. 

For  a  moment  she  thought  of  suicide,  then  the  reflection 

307 


The  Nabob 

that  it  would  be  set  down  to  a  broken  heart  arrested  her. 
She  saw  in  a  glance  the  sentimental  compassion  of  the  draw- 
ing-rooms, the  foolish  figure  that  her  sham  passion  would 
cut  among  the  innumerable  love  affairs  of  the  duke,  and  the 
Parma  violets  scattered  by  the  pretty  Moessards  of  journal- 
ism on  her  grave,  dug  so  near  the  other.  Travelling  re- 
mained to  her — one  of  those  journeys  so  distant  that  they 
take  even  one's  thoughts  into  a  new  world.  Unfortunately 
the  money  was  wanting.  Then  she  remembered  that  on  the 
morrow  of  her  great  success  at  the  Exhibition,  old  Brahim 
Bey  had  called  to  see  her,  to  make  her,  in  behalf  of  his 
master,  magnificent  proposals  for  certain  great  works  to  be 
executed  in  Tunis.  She  had  said  No  at  the  time,  without 
allowing  herself  to  be  tempted  by  Oriental  remuneration,  a 
splendid  hospitality,  the  finest  court  in  the  Bardo  for  a  stu- 
dio, with  its  surrounding  arcades  of  stone  in  lacework  carv- 
ing. But  now  she  was  quite  willing.  She  had  to  make  but  a 
sign,  the  agreement  was  immediately  concluded,  and  after 
an  exchange  of  telegrams,  a  hasty  packing  and  shutting  up 
of  the  house,  she  set  out  for  the  railway  station  as  if  for  a 
week's  absence,  astonished  herself  by  her  prompt  decision, 
flattered  on  all  the  adventurous  and  artistic  sides  of  her  na- 
ture by  the  hope  of  a  new  life  in  an  unknown  country. 

The  Bey's  pleasure  yacht  was  to  await  her  at  Genoa; 
and  in  anticipation,  closing  her  eyes  in  the  cab  which  was 
taking  her  to  the  station,  she  could  see  the  white  stone  build- 
ings of  an  Italian  port  embracing  an  iridescent  sea  where 
the  sunshine  was  already  Eastern,  where  everything  sang, 
to  the  very  swelling  of  the  sails  on  the  blue  water.  Paris, 
as  it  happened,  was  muddy  that  day,  uniformly  gray,  flooded 
by  one  of  those  continuous  rains  of  which  it  seems  to  have 
the  special  property,  rains  that  seem  to  have  risen  in  clouds 
from  its  river,  from  its  smoke,  from  its  monster's  breath, 
and  to  fall  in  torrents  from  its  roofs,  from  its  spouts,  from 
the  innumerable  windows  of  its  garrets.  Felicia  was  impa- 
tient to  get  away  from  this  gloomy  Paris,  and  her  feverish 
impatience  found  fault  with  the  cabman  who  made  slow 
progress  with  the  horses,  two  sorry  creatures  of  the  veritable 
cab-horse  type,  with  an  inexplicable  block  of  carriages  and 

308 


The   Funeral 

omnibuses  crowded  together  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Pont  de  la 
Concorde. 

"  But  go  on,  driver,  go  on,  then." 

"  I  cannot,  madame.     It  is  the  funeral  procession." 

She  put  her  head  out  of  the  window  and  drew  it  back 
again  immediately,  terrified.  A  line  of  soldiers  marching 
with  reversed  arms,  a  confusion  of  caps  and  hats  raised  from 
the  forehead  at  the  passage  of  an  endless  cortege.  It  was 
Mora's  funeral  procession  defiling  past. 

"  Don't  stop  here.    Go  round,"  she  cried  to  the  cabman. 

The  vehicle  turned  about  with  difficulty,  dragging  itself 
regretfully  from  the  superb  spectacle  which  Paris  had  been 
awaiting  for  four  days ;  it  remounted  the  avenues,  took  the 
Rue  Montaigne,  and,  with  its  slow  and  surly  little  trot,  came 
out  at  the  Madeleine  by  the  Boulevard  Malesherbes.  Here 
the  crowd  was  greater,  more  compact. 

In  the  misty  rain,  the  illuminated  stained-glass  windows 
of  the  church,  the  dull  echo  of  the  funeral  chants  beneath  the 
lavishly  distributed  black  hangings  under  which  the  very 
outline  of  the  Greek  temple  was  lost,  filled  the  whole  square 
with  a  sense  of  the  office  in  course  of  celebration,  while  the 
greater  part  of  the  immense  procession  was  still  squeezed 
up  in  the  Rue  Royale,  and  as  far  even  as  the  bridges  a  long 
black  line  connecting  the  dead  man  with  that  gate  of  the 
Legislative  Assembly  through  which  he  had  so  often  passed. 
Beyond  the  Madeleine  the  highway  of  the  boulevard 
stretched  away  empty,  and  looking  bigger  between  two  lines 
of  soldiers  with  arms  reversed,  confining  the  curious  to  the 
pavements  black  with  people,  all  the  shops  closed,  and  the 
balconies,  in  spite  of  the  rain,  overflowing  with  human  be- 
ings all  leaning  forward  in  the  direction  of  the  church,  as  if 
to  see  a  mid-Lent  festival  or  the  home-coming  of  victorious 
troops.  Paris,  hungry  for  the  spectacular,  constructs  it  in- 
differently out  of  anything,  civil  war  as  readily  as  the  burial 
of  a  statesman. 

It  was  necessary  for  the  cab  to  retrace  its  course  again 
and  to  make  a  new  circuit ;  and  it  is  easy  to  imagine  the  bad 
temper  of  the  driver  and  his  beasts,  all  three  of  them  Paris- 
ian in  soul  and  passions,  at  having  to  deprive  themselves 

309 


The  Nabob 

of  so  fine  a  show.  Then,  as  all  the  life  of  Paris  had  been 
drawn  into  the  great  artery  of  the  boulevard,  there  began 
through  the  deserted  and  silent  streets — a  capricious  and 
irregular  drive — the  snail-like  progress  of  a  cab  taken  by 
the  hour.  First  touching  the  extreme  points  of  the  Fau- 
bourg Saint-Martin  and  the  Faubourg  Saint-Denis,  return- 
ing again  towards  the  centre,  and  at  the  conclusion  of  circuits 
and  dodges  finding  always  the  same  obstacle  in  ambush,  the 
same  crowd,  some  fragment  of  the  black  defile  perceived  for 
a  moment  at  the  branching  of  a  street,  unfolding  itself  in 
the  rain  to  the  sound  of  muffled  drums — a  dull  and  heavy 
sound,  like  that  of  earth  falling  on  a  coffin-lid. 

What  torture  for  Felicia !  It  was  her  weakness  and  her 
remorse  crossing  Paris  in  this  solemn  pomp,  this  funeral 
train,  this  public  mourning  reflected  by  the  very  clouds; 
and  the  proud  girl  revolted  against  this  affront  done  her  by 
fate,  and  tried  to  escape  from  it  to  the  back  of  the  carriage, 
where  she  remained  exhausted  with  eyes  closed,  while  old 
Crenmitz,  believing  her  nervousness  to  be  grief,  did  her  best 
to  comfort  her,  herself  wept  over  their  separation,  and  hiding 
also,  left  the  entire  window  of  the  cab  to  the  big  Algerian 
hound  with  his  finely  modelled  head  scenting  the  wind,  and 
his  two  paws  resting  in  the  sash  with  an  heraldic  stiflfness  of 
pose.  Finally,  after  a  thousand  interminable  windings,  the 
cab  suddenly  came  to  a  halt,  jolted  on  again  with  difficulty 
amid  cries  and  abuse,  then,  tossed  about,  the  luggage  on  top 
threatening  its  equilibrium,  it  ended  by  coming  to  a  full  stop, 
held  prisoner,  as  it  were,  at  anchor. 

"Bon  Dieu!  what  a  mass  of  people!"  murmured  the 
Crenmitz,  terrified. 

Felicia  came  out  of  her  stupor. 

"  Where  are  we  ?  " 

Under  a  colourless,  smoky  sky,  blotted  out  by  a  fine  net- 
work of  rain  and  stretched  like  gauze  over  everything,  there 
lay  an  immense  space  filled  by  an  ocean  of  humanity  surging 
from  all  the  streets  that  led  to  it,  and  motionless  around  a 
lofty  column  of  bronze,  which  dominated  this  sea  like  the 
gigantic  mast  of  a  sunken  vessel.  Cavalry  in  squadrons, 
with  swords  drawn,  guns  in  batteries  stood  at  intervals  along 

310 


The  Funeral 

an  open  passage,  awaiting  him  who  was  to  come  by,  perhaps 
in  order  to  try  to  retake  him,  to  carry  him  off  by  force  from 
the  formidable  enemy  who  was  bearing  him  away.  Alas! 
all  the  cavalry  charges,  all  the  guns  could  be  of  no  avail 
here.  The  prisoner  was  departing,  firmly  guarded,  defended 
by  a  triple  wall  of  hardwood,  metal,  and  velvet,  impervious 
to  grape-shot;  and  it  was  not  from  those  soldiers  that  he 
could  hope  for  his  deliverance. 

"  Get  away  from  this.  I  will  not  stay  here,"  said  Felicia, 
furious,  plucking  at  the  wet  box-coat  of  the  driver,  and  seized 
by  a  wild  dread  at  the  thought  o'  the  nightmare  which  was 
pursuing  her,  of  that  which  she  could  hear  coming  in  a 
frightful  rumbling,  still  distant,  but  growing  nearer  from 
minute  to  minute.  At  the  first  movement  of  the  wheels, 
however,  the  cries  and  shouts  broke  out  anew.  Thinking 
that  he  would  be  allowed  to  cross  the  square,  the  driver  had 
penetrated  w'ith  great  difficulty  to  the  front  ranks  of  the 
crowd  ;  it  now  closed  behind  him  and  refused  to  allow  him  to 
go  forward.  There  they  had  to  remain,  to  endure  those 
odours  of  common  people  and  of  alcohol,  those  curious 
glances,  already  fired  by  the  prospect  of  an  exceptional  spec- 
tacle. They  stared  rudely  at  the  beautiful  traveller  who 
was  starting  of¥  with  so  many  trunks,  and  a  dog  of  such  a 
size  for  her  defender.  Crenmitz  was  horribly  afraid ;  Fe- 
licia, for  her  part,  could  think  of  only  one  thing,  and  that 
was  that  he  was  about  to  pass  before  her  eyes,  that  she  would 
be  in  the  front  rank  to  see  him. 

Suddenly  a  great  shout  "  Here  it  comes !  "  Then  silence 
fell  on  the  whole  square  at  last  at  the  end  of  three  weary 
hours  of  waiting. 

It  came. 

Felicia's  first  impulse  was  to  lower  the  blind  on  her  side, 
on  the  side  past  which  the  procession  was  about  to  pass. 
But  at  the  rolling  of  the  dnims  close  at  hand,  seized  by  a 
ner\'ous  wrath  at  her  inability  to  escape  the  obsession  of  the 
thing,  perhaps  also  infected  by  the  morbid  curiosity  around 
her,  she  suddenly  let  the  blind  fly  up,  and  her  pale  and  pas- 
sionate little  face  showed  itself  at  the  window,  supported  by 
her  two  clinched  hands. 

3" 


The  Nabob 

"  There !  since  you  will  have  it :  I  am  watching  you." 
As  a  funeral  it  was  as  fine  a  thing  as  can  be  seen,  the  su- 
preme honours  rendered  in  all  their  vain  splendour,  as  sono- 
rous, as  hollow  as  the  rhythmic  accompaniment  on  the 
muffled  drums.  First  the  white  surplices  of  the  clergy,  amid 
the  mourning  drapery  of  the  first  five  carriages ;  next,  drawn 
by  six  black  horses,  veritable  horses  of  Erebus,  there  ad- 
vanced the  funeral  car,  all  beplumed,  fringed  and  embroi- 
dered in  silver,  with  big  tears,  heraldic  coronets  surmount- 
ing gigantic  M's,  prophetic  initials  which  seemed  those  of 
Death  himself,  La  Mort  made  a  duchess  decorated  with  the 
eight  waving  plumes.  So  many  canopies  and  massive  hang- 
ings hid  the  vulgar  body  of  the  hearse,  as  it  trembled  and 
quivered  at  each  step  from  top  to  bottom  as  though  crushed 
beneath  the  majesty  of  its  dead  burden.  On  the  coffin,  the 
sword,  the  coat,  the  embroidered  hat,  parade  undress — 
which  had  never  been  worn — shone  with  gold  and  mother- 
of-pearl  in  the  darkened  little  tent  formed  by  the  hangings 
and  among  the  bright  tints  of  fresh  flowers  telling  of  spring 
in  spite  of  the  sullenness  of  the  sky.  At  a  distance  of  ten 
paces  came  the  household  servants  of  the  duke  ;  then,  behind, 
in  majestic  isolation,  the  cloaked  officer  bearing  the  emblems 
of  honour — a  veritable  display  of  all  the  orders  of  the  whole 
w'orld — crosses,  multicoloured  ribbons,  which  covered  to 
overflowing  the  cushion  of  black  velvet  with  silver  fringe. 

The  master  of  ceremonies  came  next,  in  front  of  the  rep- 
resentatives of  the  Legislative  Assembly — a  dozen  deputies 
chosen  by  lot,  among  them  the  tall  figure  of  the  Nabob, 
wearing  the  official  costume  for  the  first  time,  as  if  ironical 
Fortune  had  desired  to  give  to  the  representative  on  pro- 
bation a  foretaste  of  all  parliamentary  joys.  The  friends  of 
the  dead  man,  who  followed,  formed  a  rather  small  group, 
singularly  well  chosen  to  exhibit  in  its  crudity  the  super- 
ficiality and  the  void  of  that  existence  of  a  great  personage 
reduced  to  the  intimacy  of  a  theatrical  manager  thrice  bank- 
rupt, of  a  picture-dealer  grown  wealthy  through  usury,  of  a 
nobleman  of  tarnished  reputation,  and  of  a  few  men  about 
town  without  distinction.  Up  to  this  point  everybody  was 
walking  on  foot  and  bareheaded ;  among  the  parliamentary 

312 


The  Funeral 

representatives  there  were  only  a  few  black  skull-caps,  which 
had  been  put  on  timidly  as  they  approached  the  populous 
districts.    After  them  the  carriages  began. 

At  the  death  of  a  great  warrior  it  is  the  custom  for  the 
funeral  convoy  to  be  followed  by  the  favourite  horse  of  the 
hero,  his  battle  charger,  regulating  to  the  slow  step  of  the 
procession  that  dancing  step  excited  by  the  smell  of  powder 
and  the  pageantry  of  standards.  In  this  case,  Mora's  great 
brougham,  that  "  C-spring  "  which  used  to  bear  him  to  fash- 
ionable or  political  gatherings,  took  the  place  of  that  com- 
panion in  victory,  its  panels  draped  with  black,  its  lamps 
veiled  in  long  streamers  of  light  crape,  floating  to  the  ground 
with  undulating  feminine  grace.  These  veiled  lamps  con- 
stituted a  new  fashion  for  funerals — the  supreme  "  chic  "  of 
mourning ;  and  it  well  became  this  dandy  to  give  a  last  les- 
son in  elegance  to  the  Parisians,  who  flocked  to  his  obse- 
quies as  to  a  "  Longchamps  "  of  death. 

Three  more  masters  of  ceremony ;  then  came  the  im- 
passive ofHcial  procession,  always  the  same  for  marriages, 
deaths,  baptisms,  openings  of  Parliament,  or  receptions  of 
sovereigns,  the  interminable  cortege  of  glittering  carriages, 
with  large  windows  and  showy  liveries  bedizened  with  gilt, 
which  passed  through  the  midst  of  the  dazzled  people,  to 
whom  they  recalled  fairy-tales,  Cinderella  chariots,  while 
evoking  those  "  Oh's !  "  of  admiration  that  mount  and  die 
away  with  the  rockets  on  the  evenings  of  firework  displays. 
And  in  the  crowd  there  was  always  to  be  found  some  good- 
natured  policeman,  some  learned  little  grocer  sauntering 
round  on  the  lookout  for  public  ceremonies,  ready  to  name 
hi  a  loud  voice  all  the  people  in  the  carriages,  as  they  de- 
filed past,  with  their  regulation  escorts  of  dragoons,  cuiras- 
siers, or  Paris  guards. 

First  the  representatives  of  the  Emperor,  the  Empress 
and  all  the  Imperial  family ;  after  these,  in  an  hierarchic 
order,  cunningly  elaborated,  and  the  least  infraction  of 
Avhich  might  have  been  the  cause  of  grave  conflicts  between 
the  various  departments  of  the  State — the  members  of  the 
Privy  Council,  the  Alarshals,  the  Admirals,  the  High  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Legion  of  Honour ;  then  the  Senate,  the  Legis- 

313 


The  Nabob 

lative  Assembly,  the  Council  of  State,  the  whole  organization 
of  the  law  and  of  the  university,  the  costumes,  the  ermine, 
the  headgear  of  which  took  you  back  to  the  days  of  old 
Paris — an  air  of  something  stately  and  antiquated,  out  of 
date  in  our  sceptical  epoch  of  the  workman's  blouse  and 
the  dress-coat. 

Felicia,  to  avoid  her  thoughts,  voluntarily  fixed  her  eyes 
upon  this  monotonous  defile,  exasperating  in  its  length  ;  and 
little  by  little  a  torpor  stole  over  her,  as  if  on  a  rainy  day 
she  had  been  turning  over  the  leaves  of  an  album  of  en- 
gravings, a  history  of  official  costumes  from  the  most  remote 
times  down  to  our  own  day.  All  these  people,  seen  in  pro- 
file, still  and  upright,  behind  the  large  glass  panes  of  the 
carriage  windows,  had  indeed  the  appearance  of  personages 
in  coloured  plates,  sitting  well  forward  on  the  edge  of  the 
seats  in  order  that  the  spectators  should  miss  nothing  of 
their  golden  embroideries,  their  palm-leaves,  their  galloons, 
their  braids — puppets  given  over  to  the  curiosity  of  the 
crowd — and  exposing  themselves  to  it  with  an  air  of  indif- 
ference and  detachment. 

Indifference !  That  was  the  most  special  characteristic 
of  this  funeral.  It  was  to  be  felt  everywhere,  on  people's 
faces  and  in  their  hearts,  as  well  among  these  functionaries 
of  whom  the  greater  part  had  only  known  the  duke  by 
sight,  as  in  the  ranks  on  foot  between  his  hearse  and  his 
brougham,  his  closest  friends,  or  those  who  had  been  in 
daily  attendance  upon  him.  The  fat  minister,  Vice-Presi- 
dent of  the  Council,  seemed  indifferent,  and  even  glad,  as 
he  held  in  his  powerful  fist  the  strings  of  the  pall  and  seemed 
to  draw  it  forward,  in  more  haste  than  the  horses  and  the 
hearse  to  conduct  to  his  six  feet  of  earth  the  enemy  of  twen- 
ty years'  standing,  the  eternal  rival,  the  obstacle  to  all  his 
ambitions.  The  other  three'lITgrtitaTies  did  not  advance 
with  the  same  vigour,  and  the  long  corcjs  floated  loosely  in 
their  weary  or  careless  hands  with  significant  slackness. 
The  priests  were  indifferent  by  profession.  Indifferent  were 
the  servants  of  his  household,  whom  he  never  called  any- 
thing but  "  chose''  and  whom  he  treated  really  like  "  things." 
Indifferent  was  M.  Louis,  for  whom  it  was  the  last  day  of 

314 


The   Funeral . 

sendtude,  a  slave  become  emancipated,  rich  enough  to  enjoy 
his  ransom.  Even  among  the  intimate  friends  of  the  dead 
man  this  glacial  cold  had  penetrated.  Yet  some  of  them  had 
been  deeply  attached  to  him.  But  Cardailhac  was  too  busy 
superintending  the  order  and  the  progress  of  the  procession 
to  give  way  to  the  least  emotion,  which  would,  besides,  have 
been  foreign  to  his  nature.  Old  Monpavon,  stricken  to  the 
heart,  would  have  considered  the  least  bending  of  his  linen 
cuirass  and  of  his  tall  figure  a  piece  of  deplorably  bad  taste, 
totally  unworthy  of  his  illustrious  friend.  His  eyes  remained 
as  dry  and  glittering  as  ever,  since  the  undertakers  provide 
the  tears  for  great  mournings,  embroidered  in  silver  on 
black  cloth.  Some  one  was  weeping,  however,  away  yonder 
among  the  members  of  the  committee ;  but  he  was  expend- 
ing his  compassion  very  naively  upon  himself.  Poor  Nabob ! 
softened  by  that  music  and  splendour,  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  was  burying  all  his  ambitions  of  glory  and  dignity.  And 
his  was  but  one  more  variety  of  indifference. 

Among  the  public,  the  enjoyment  of  a  fine  spectacle, 
the  pleasure  of  turning  a  week-day  into  a  Sunday,  domi- 
nated every  other  sentiment.  Along  the  line  of  the  boule- 
vards, the  spectators  on  the  balconies  almost  seemed  dis- 
posed to  applaud ;  here,  in  the  populous  districts,  irrever- 
ence was  still  more  frankly  manifest.  Jests,  blackguardly 
wit  at  the  expense  of  the  dead  man  and  his  doings,  known 
to  all  Paris,  laughter  raised  by  the  tall  hats  of  the  rabbis, 
the  pass-word  of  the  council  experts,  all  were  heard  in  the 
air  between  two  rolls  of  the  drum.  Poverty,  forced  labour, 
with  its  feet  in  the  wet,  wearing  its  blouse,  its  apron,  its  cap 
raised  from  habit,  with  sneering  chuckle  watched  this  inhab- 
itant of  another  sphere  pass  by,  this  brilliant  duke,  severed 
now  from  all  his  honours,  who  perhaps  while  living  had 
never  paid  a  visit  to  that  end  of  the  town.  But  there  it  is. 
To  arrive  up  yonder,  where  everybody  has  to  go,  the  com- 
mon route  must  be  taken,  the  Faubourg  Saint-Antoine,  the 
Rue  de  la  Roquette  as  far  as  that  great  gate  where  the  octroi 
is  collected  and  the  infinite  begins.  And  well !  it  does  one 
good  to  see  that  lordly  persons  like  Mora,  dukes,  ministers, 
follow  the  same  road  towards  the  same  destination.     This 

315  Vol.  18—0 


The  Nabob 

(equality  in  death  consoles  for  many  of  the  injustices  of  life. 
To-morrow  bread  will  seem  less  dear,  wine  better,  the  work- 
man's tool  less  heavy,  when  he  will  be  able  to  say  to  him- 
self as  he  rises  in  the  morning,  "  That  old  Mora,  he  has  come 
to  it  like  the  rest ! " 

The  procession  still  went  on,  more  fatiguing  even  than 
lugubrious.  Now  it  consisted  of  choral  societies,  deputa- 
tions from  the  army  and  the  navy,  officers  of  .all  descriptions, 
pressing  on  in  a  troop  in  advance  of  a  long  file  of  empty 
vehicles — mourning-coaches,  private  carriages — present  for 
reasons  of  etiquette.  Then  the  troops  followed  in  their  turn, 
and  into  the  sordid  suburb,  that  long  Rue  de  la  Roquette, 
already  swarming  with  people  as  far  as  eye  could  reach,  there 
plunged  a  whole  army,  foot-soldiers,  dragoons,  lancers,  cara- 
bineers, heavy  guns  with  their  great  mouths  in  the  air, 
ready  to  bark,  making  pavement  and  windows  tremble,  but 
not  able  to  drow-n  the  rolling  of  the  drums — a  sinister  and 
savage  rolling  which  suggested  to  Felicia's  imagination 
some  funeral  of  an  African  chief,  at  which  thousands  of 
sacrificed  victims  accompany  the  soul  of  a  prince  so  that 
it  shall  not  pass  alone  into  the  kingdom  of  spirits,  and  made 
her  fancy  that  perhaps  this  pompous  and  interminable  retinue 
was  about  to  descend  and  disappear  in  the  superhuman  gravr^ 
large  enough  to  receive  the  whole  of  it. 

"Now  and  in  the  hour  of  our  death.  Amen,^*  Crenmitz 
murmured,  while  the  cab  swayed  from  side  to  side  in  the 
lighted  square,  and  high  in  space  the  golden  statue  of  Lib- 
erty seemed  to  be  taking  a  magic  flight ;  and  the  old  dancer's 
prayer  was  perhaps  the  one  note  of  sincere  feeling  called 
forth  on  the  immense  line  of  the  funeral  procession. 

All  the  speeches  are  over ;  three  long  speeches  as  icy  as 
the  vault  into  which  the  dead  man  has  just  descended,  three 
official  declamations  which,  above  all,  have  provided  the 
orators  w'ith  an  opportunity  of  giving  loud  voice  to  their 
own  devotion  to  the  interests  of  the  dynasty.  Fifteen  times 
the  guns  have  roused  the  many  echoes  of  the  cemetery, 
shaken  the  wreaths  of  jet  and  everlasting  flowers — the  light 
ex-voto  ofiferings  suspended  at  the  comers  of  the  monuments 
— and  while  a  reddish  mist  floats  and  rolls  with  a  smell  of 

316 


The  Funeral 

gunpowder  across  the  city  of  the  dead,  ascends  and  mingles 
slowly  with  the  smoke  of  factories  in  the  plebeian  district, 
the  innumerable  assembly  disperses  also,  scattered  through 
the  steep  streets,  down  the  lofty  steps  all  white  among  the 
foliage,  with  a  confused  murmur,  a  rippling  as  of  waves  over 
rocks.  Purple  robes,  black  robes,  blue  and  green  coats, 
shoulder-knots  of  gold,  slender  swords,  of  whose  safety  the 
wearers  assure  themselves  with  their  hands  as  they  walk, 
all  hasten  to  regain  their  carriages.  People  exchange  low 
bows,  discreet  smiles,  while  the  mourning-coaches  tear  down 
the  carriage-ways  at  a  gallop,  revealing  long  lines  of  black 
coachmen,  with  backs  bent,  hats  tilted  forward,  the  box- 
coats  flying  in  the  wind  made  by  their  rapid  motion. 

The  general  impression  is  one  of  thankfulness  to  have 
reached  the  end  of  a  long  and  fatiguing  performance,  a 
legitimate  eagerness  to  quit  the  administrative  harness  and 
ceremonial  costumes,  to  unbuckle  sashes,  to  loosen  stand- 
up  collars  and  neckbands,  to  slacken  the  tension  of  facial 
muscles,  which  had  been  subject  to  long  restraint. 

Heavy  and  short,  dragging  along  his  swollen  legs  with 
difBculty,  Hemerlingue  was  hastening  towards  the  exit, 
declining  the  offers  which  were  made  to  him  of  a  seat  in 
this  or  that  carriage,  since  he  knew  well  that  his  own  alone 
was  of  size  adequate  to  cope  with  his  proportions. 

"  Baron,  Baron,  this  way.    There  is  room  for  you." 

"  No,  thank  vou.  I  want  to  walk  to  straighten  my 
legs." 

And  to  avoid  these  invitations,  which  were  beginning  to 
embarrass  him,  he  took  an  almost  deserted  pathway,  one 
that  proved  too  deserted  indeed,  for  hardly  had  he  taken  a 
step  along  it  before  he  regretted  it.  Ever  since  entering 
the  cemetery  he  had  had  but  one  preoccupation — the  fear  of 
finding  himself  face  to  face  with  Jansoulet,  whose  violence 
of  temper  he  knew,  and  who  might  well  forget  the  sacred- 
ness  of  the  place,  and  even  in  Pere  Lachaise  renew  the 
scandal  of  the  Rue  Royale.  Two  or  three  times  during  the 
ceremony  he  had  seen  the  great  head  of  his  old  chum 
emerge  from  among  the  crowd  of  insignificant  types  wiiich 
largely  composed  the  company  and  move  in  his  direction, 

317 


The  Nabob 

as  though  seeking  him  and  desiring  a  meeting.  Down 
there,  in  the  main  road,  there  would,  at  any  rate,  have  been 
people  about  in  case  of  trouble,  while  here — Brr —  It  was 
this  anxiety  that  made  him  quicken  his  short  step,  his  pant- 
ing breaths,  but  in  vain.  As  he  looked  round,  in  his  fear 
of  being  followed,  the  strong,  erect  shoulders  of  the  Na- 
bob appeared  at  the  entrance  to  the  path.  Impossible  for 
the  big  man  to  slip  away  through  one  of  the  narrow  passages 
left  between  the  tombs,  which  are  placed  so  close  together 
that  there  is  not  even  space  to  kneel.  The  damp,  rich  soil 
slipped  and  gave  way  beneath  his  feet.  He  decided  to  walk 
on  with  an  air  of  indifference,  hoping  that  perhaps  the 
other  might  not  recognise  him.  But  a  hoarse  and  powerful 
voice  cried  behind  him  : 

"  Lazarus ! " 

His  name — the  name  of  this  rich  man — was  Lazarus. 
He  made  no  reply,  but  tried  to  catch  up  a  group  of  officers 
who  were  moving  on,  very  far  in  front  of  him. 

"  Lazarus !     Oh,  Lazarus  !  " 

Just  as  in  old  times  on  the  quay  of  Marseilles.  Under 
the  influence  of  old  habit  he  was  tempted  to  stop ;  then 
the  remembrance  of  his  infamies,  of  all  the  ill  he  had  done 
the  Nabob,  that  he  was  still  occupied  in  doing  him,  came 
back  to  him  suddenly  with  a  horrible  fear  so  strong  that  it 
amounted  to  a  paroxysm,  when  an  iron  hand  laid  hold 
of  him  unceremoniously.  A  sweat  of  terror  broke  out  over 
all  his  flabby  limbs,  his  face  became  still  more  yellow,  his 
eyes  blinked  in  anticipation  of  the  formidable  blow  which 
he  expected  to  come,  while  his  fat  arms  were  instinctively 
raised  to  ward  it  off. 

"  Oh,  don't  be  afraid.  I  wish  you  no  harm,"  said  Jan- 
soulet  sadly.  "  Only  I  have  come  to  beg  you  to  do  no  more 
to  me." 

He  stooped  to  breathe.  The  banker,  bewildered  and 
frightened,  opened  wide  his  round  owl's  eyes  in  presence  of 
this  suffocating  emotion. 

"  Listen,  Lazarus ;  it  is  you  who  are  the  stronger  in  this 
war  we  have  been  waging  on  each  other  for  so  long.  I  am 
down ;  yes,  down.    My  shoulders  have  touched  the  ground. 

318 


The  Funeral 

Now,  be  generous ;  spare  your  old  chum.  Give  me  quarter ; 
come,  give  me  quarter." 

This  southerner  was  trembling,  defeated  and  softened  by 
the  emotional  display  of  the  funeral  ceremony.  Hemer- 
lingue,  as  he  stood  facing  him,  was  hardly  more  courageous. 
The  gloomy  music,  the  open  grave,  the  speeches,  the  can- 
nonade of  that  lofty  philosophy  of  inevitable  death,  all  these 
things  had  worked  on  the  feelings  of  this  fat  baron.  The 
voice  of  his  old  comrade  completed  the  awakening  of  what- 
ever there  remained  of  human  in  that  packet  of  gelatine. 

His  old  chum !  It  was  the  first  time  for  ten  years — 
since  their  quarrel — that  he  had  seen  him  so  near.  How 
many  things  were  recalled  to  him  by  those  sun-tanned  fea- 
tures, those  broad  shoulders,  so  ill  adapted  for  the  wearing 
of  embroidered  coats !  The  thin  woollen  rug  full  of  holes, 
in  which  they  used  to  wrap  themselves  both  to  sleep  on  the 
bridge  of  the  Si)iai,  the  food  shared  in  brotherly  fashion,  the 
wanderings  through  the  bumed-up  country  round  Mar- 
seilles, where  they  used  to  steal  big  onions  and  eat  them  raw 
by  the  side  of  some  ditch,  the  dreams,  the  schemings,  the 
pence  put  into  a  common  fund,  and,  when  fortune  had  begun 
to  smile  on  them,  the  fun  they  had  had  together,  those  excel- 
lent quiet  little  suppers  over  which  they  would  tell  each  other 
everything,  with  their  elbows  on  the  table. 

How  can  one  ever  reach  the  point  of  seriously  quarrel- 
ling when  one  knows  the  other  so  well,  when  they  have  lived 
together  like  two  twins  at  the  breast  of  the  lean  and  strong 
nurse.  Poverty,  sharing  her  sour  milk  and  her  rough  ca- 
resses !  These  thoughts  passed  through  Hemerlingue's 
mind  like  a  flash  of  lightning.  Almost  instinctively  he  let 
his  heavy  hand  fall  into  the  one  which  the  Nabob  was  hold- 
ing out  to  him.  Something  of  the  primitive  animal  was 
roused  in  them,  something  stronger  than  their  enmity,  and 
these  two  men,  each  of  whom  for  ten  years  had  been  trying 
to  bring  the  other  to  ruin  and  disgrace,  fell  to  talking  with- 
out any  reserve. 

Generally,  between  friends  newly  met,  after  the  first 
effusions  are  over,  a  silence  comes  as  if  they  had  no  more  to 
■^■■"  '^ach  other,  while  it  is  in  reality  the  abundance  of  things, 

319 


The  Nabob 

their  precipitate  rush,  that  prevents  them  from  finding  utter- 
ance. The  two  chums  had  touched  that  condition ;  but  Jan- 
soulet  kept  a  tight  grasp  on  the  banker's  arm,  fearing  to 
see  him  escape  and  resist  the  kindly  impulse  he  had  just 
roused. 

"  You  are  not  in  a  hurry,  are  you  ?  We  can  take  a  little 
walk,  if  you  like.  It  has  stopped  raining,  the  air  is  pleasant ; 
one  feels  twenty  years  younger." 

"  Yes,  it  is  pleasant,*'  said  Hemerlingue ;  "  only  I  can- 
not walk  for  long ;  my  legs  are  heavy." 

"  True ;  your  poor  legs.  See,  there  is  a  bench  over  there. 
Let  us  go  and  sit  down.    Lean  on  me,  old  friend." 

And  the  Nabob,  with  brotherly  aid,  led  him  to  one  of 
those  benches  dotted  here  and  there  among  the  tombs,  on 
which  those  inconsolable  mourners  rest  who  make  the  ceme- 
tery their  usual  walk  and  abode.  He  settled  him  in  his 
seat,  gazed  upon  him  tenderly,  pitied  him  for  his  infirmity, 
and,  following  what  was  quite  a  natural  channel  in  such  a 
spot,  they  came  to  talking  of  their  health,  of  the  old  age 
that  was  approaching.  The  one  was  dropsical,  the  other 
subject  to  apoplectic  fits.  Both  were  in  the  habit  of  dosing 
themselves  with  the  Jenkins  pearls,  a  dangerous  remedy — 
witness  Mora,  so  quickly  carried  off. 

"  My  poor  duke !  "  said  Jansoulet. 

"  A  great  loss  to  the  country,"  remarked  the  banker 
with  an  air  of  conviction. 

And  the  Nabob  added  naively : 

"  For  me  above  all,  for  me ;  for,  if  he  had  lived —  Ah ! 
what  luck  you  have,  what  luck  you  have ! " 

Fearing  to  have  wounded  him,  he  went  on  quickly : 

"  And  then,  too,  you  are  clever,  so  very  clever." 

The  baron  looked  at  him  with  a  wink  so  droll,  that  his 
little  black  eyelashes  disappeared  amid  his  yellow  fat. 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  it  is  not  I  who  am  clever.  It  is 
Marie." 

"Marie?" 

**  Yes,  the  baroness.  Since  her  baptism  she  has  given  up 
her  name  of  Yamina  for  that  of  Marie.  She  is  a  real  sort 
of  woman.    She  knows  more  than  I  do  myself  about  banking 

320 


The  Funeral 

and  Paris  and  business.  It  is  she  who  manages  everything 
at  home." 

"  You  are  very  fortunate,"  sighed  Jansoulet.  His  air  of 
gloom  told  a  long  story  of  qualities  missing  in  Mile.  Afchin. 
Then,  after  a  silence,  the  baron  resumed : 

"  She  has  a  great  grudge  against  you,  Marie,  you  know. 
She  will  not  be  pleased  when  she  hears  that  we  have  been 
talking  together." 

A  frown  passed  over  his  heavy  brow,  as  though  he  were 
regretting  their  reconciliation,  at  the  thought  of  the  scene 
which  he  would  have  with  his  wdfe.    Jansoulet  stammered : 

"  I  have  done  her  no  harm,  however." 

"  Come,  come,  neither  of  you  has  been  very  nice  to 
her.  Think  of  the  affront  put  upon  her  when  we  called 
after  our  marriage.  Your  wife  sending  word  to  us  that 
she  was  not  in  the  habit  of  receiving  quondam  slaves.  As 
though  our  friendship  ought  not  to  have  been  stronger 
than  a  prejudice.    Women  don't  forget  things  of  that  kind." 

"  But  no  responsibility  lay  with  me  for  that,  old  friend. 
You  know  how  proud  those  Afchins  are." 

He  was  not  proud  himself,  poor  man.  His  mien  was  so 
woebegone,  so  supplicating  under  his  friend's  frown,  that 
he  moved  him  to  pity.  Decidedly,  the  cemetery  had  softened 
the  baron. 

"  Listen,  Bernard ;  there  is  only  one  thing  that  counts. 
If  you  want  us  to  be  friends,  as  formerly,  and  this  recon- 
ciliation not  to  be  wasted,  you  will  have  to  get  my  wife  to 
consent.  Without  that  nothing  can  be  done.  When  Mile. 
Afchin  shut  her  door  in  our  faces  you  let  her  have  her  way, 
did  you  not?  In  the  same  way,  on  my  side,  if  Marie  said 
to  me  when  I  go  home,  '  I  will  not  let  you  be  friends,'  all 
my  protestations  now  would  not  prevent  me  from  throwing 
you  overboard.  For  there  is  no  such  thing  as  friendship  in 
face  of  such  difficulties.  Peace  at  one's  fireside  is  better  than 
everything  else." 

"  But  in  that  case,  what  is  to  be  done  ?  "  asked  the  Na- 
bob, frightened. 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  The  baroness  is  at  home  every 
Saturday.    Come  with  your  wife  and  pay  her  a  visit  the  day 

321 


The  Nabob 

after  to-morrow.  You  will  find  the  best  society  in  Paris  at 
the  house.  The  past  shall  not  be  mentioned.  The  ladies 
will  gossip  together  of  chiffons  and  frocks,  talk  of  the  things 
women  do  talk  about.  And  then  the  whole  matter  will  be 
settled.  We  shall  become  friends  as  we  used  to  be ;  and 
since  you  are  in  difficulties,  well,  we  will  find  some  way  of 
getting  you  out  of  them." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  The  fact  is  I  am  in  terrible  straits," 
said  the  other,  shaking  his  head. 

Hemerlingue's  cunning  eyes  disappeared  again  beneath 
the  folds  of  his  cheeks  like  two  flies  in  butter. 

"  Well,  yes ;  I  have  played  a  strong  game.  But  you 
don't  lack  shrewdness,  all  the  same.  The  loan  of  the  fifteen 
millions  to  the  Bey — it  was  a  good  stroke,  that.  Ah !  you 
are  bold  enough  ;  only  you  hold  your  cards  badly.  One  can 
see  your  game." 

Till  now  they  had  been  talking  in  low  tones,  impressed 
by  the  silence  of  the  great  necropolis ;  but  little  by  little 
human  interests  asserted  themselves  in  a  louder  key  even 
there  where  their  nothingness  lay  exposed  on  all  those  flat 
stones  covered  with  dates  and  figures,  as  if  death  was  only  an 
affair  of  time  and  calculation — the  desired  solution  of  a 
problem. 

Hemerlingue  enjoyed  the  sight  of  his  friend  reduced  to 
such  humility,  and  gave  him  advice  on  his  afifairs,  with  which 
he  seemed  to  be  fully  acquainted.  According  to  him  the 
Nabob  could  still  get  out  of  his  difficulties  very  well.  Every- 
thing depended  on  the  validation,  on  the  turning  up  of  a 
card.  The  question  was  to  make  sure  that  it  should  be  a 
good  one.  But  Jansoulet  had  no  more  confidence.  In  los- 
ing Mora,  he  had  lost  everything. 

"  You  lose  Mora,  but  you  regain  me ;  so  things  are 
equalized,"  said  the  banker  tranquilly. 

"  No,  do  you  see  it  is  impossible.  It  is  too  late.  Le 
Merquier  has  completed  his  report.  It  is  a  dreadful  one, 
I  believe." 

"  Well,  if  he  has  completed  his  report,  he  will  have  to 
prepare  another." 

"  How  is  that  to  be  done  ?  " 

322 


The   Funeral 

The  baron  looked  at  him  with  surprise. 

"  Ah,  you  are  losing  your  senses.  Why,  by  paying  him 
a  hundred,  two  hundred,  three  hundred  thousand  francs,  if 
necessary." 

"  How  can  you  think  of  such  a  thing?  Le  Merquier,  that 
man  of  integrity !    '  My  conscience,'  as  they  call  him." 

This  time  Hemerlingue's  laugh  burst  forth  w-ith  an 
extraordinary  heartiness,  and  must  have  reached  the  inmost 
recesses  of  the  neighbouring  mausoleums,  little  accustomed 
to  such  disrespect. 

"  '  My  conscience  '  a  man  of  integrity !  Ah  !  you  amuse 
me.  You  don't  know,  then,  that  he  is  in  my  pay,  conscience 
and  all,  and  that — "  He  paused,  and  looked  behind  him, 
somewhat  startled  bv  a  sound  w'hich  he  had  heard. 
"  Listen." 

It  was  the  echo  of  his  laughter  sent  back  to  them  from  the 
depths  of  a  vault,  as  if  the  idea  of  Le  Merquier  having  a 
conscience  moved  even  the  dead  to  mirth. 

"  Suppose  we  walk  a  little,"  said  he,  "  it  begins  to  be 
chilly  on  this  bench." 

Then,  as  they  walked  among  the  tombs,  he  went  on  to 
explain  to  him  with  a  certain  pedantic  fatuity,  that  in  France 
bribes  played  as  important  a  part  as  in  the  East.  Only 
one  had  to  be  a  little  more  delicate  about  it  here.  You 
veiled  your  bribes.  "  Thus,  take  this  Le  Merquier,  for  in- 
stance. Instead  of  offering  him  your  money  openly,  in  a  big 
purse,  as  you  would  to  a  local  pasha,  you  go  about  it  indi- 
rectly. The  man  is  fond  of  pictures.  He  is  constantly  hav- 
ing dealings  with  Schwalbach,  who  employs  him  as  a  decoy 
for  his  Catholic  clients.  Well,  you  offer  him  some  picture — 
a  souvenir  to  hang  on  a  panel  in  his  study.  The  whole  point 
is  to  make  the  price  quite  clear.  But  you  will  see.  I  will 
take  you  round  to  call  on  him  myself,  I  will  show  you  how 
the  thing  is  worked." 

And  delighted  at  the  amazement  of  the  Nabob,  who,  to 
flatter  him,  exaggerated  his  surprise  still  further,  and  opened 
his  eyes  wide  with  an  air  of  admiration,  the  banker  enlarged 
the  scope  of  his  lesson — made  of  it  a  veritable  course  of 
Parisian  and  worldly  philosophy. 

323 


The  Nabob 

"  See,  old  comrade,  what  one  has  to  look  after  in  Paris, 
above  everything,  is  the  keeping  up  of  appearances.  They 
are  the  only  things  that  count — appearances !  Now  you 
have  not  sufficient  care  for  them.  You  go  about  town,  your 
waistcoat  unbuttoned,  a  good-humoured  fellow,  talking  of 
your  affairs,  just  what  you  are  by  nature.  You  stroll  around 
just  as  you  would  in  the  bazaars  of  Tunis.  That  is  how  you 
have  come  to  get  bowled  over,  my  good  Bernard." 

He  paused  to  take  breath,  fueling  quite  exhausted.  In 
an  hour  he  had  walked  farther  and  spoken  more  than  he  was 
accustomed  to  do  in  the  course  of  a  whole  year.  They  no- 
ticed, as  they  stopped,  that  their  walk  and  conversation  had 
led  them  back  in  the  direction  of  Mora's  grave,  which  was 
situated  just  above  a  little  exposed  plateau,  whence  looking 
over  a  thousand  closely  packed  roofs,  they  could  see  Mont- 
martre,  the  Buttes  Chaumont,  their  rounded  outline  in  the 
distance  looking  like  high  waves.  In  the  hollows  lights  were 
already  beginning  to  twinkle,  like  ships'  lanterns,  through 
the  violet  mists  that  were  rising;  chimneys  seemed  to  leap 
upward  like  masts,  or  steamer  funnels  discharging  their 
smoke.  Those  three  undulations,  with  the  tide  of  Pere  La- 
chaise,  were  clearly  suggestive  of  waves  of  the  sea,  following 
each  other  at  equal  intervals.  The  sky  was  bright,  as  often 
happens  in  the  evening  of  a  rainy  day,  an  immense  sky, 
shaded  with  tints  of  dawn,  against  which  the  family  tomb 
of  Mora  exhibited  in  relief  four  allegorical  figures,  implor- 
ing, meditative,  thoughtful,  whose  attitudes  were  made  more 
imposing  by  the  dying  light.  Of  the  speeches,  of  the  official 
condolences,  nothing  remained.  The  soil  trodden  down  all 
around,  masons  at  work  washing  the  dirt  from  the  plaster 
threshold,  were  all  that  was  left  to  recall  the  recent  burial. 

Suddenly  the  door  of  the  ducal  tomb  shut  with  a  clash  of 
all  its  metallic  weight.  Thenceforth  the  late  Minister  of 
State  was  to  remain  alone,  utterly  alone,  in  the  shadov/  of  its 
night,  deeper  than  that  which  then  was  creeping  up  from 
the  bottom  of  the  garden,  invading  the  winding  paths,  the 
stone  stairways,  the  bases  of  the  columns,  pyramids  and 
tombs  of  every  kind,  whose  summits  were  reached  more 
slowly  by  the  shroud.     Navvies,  all  white  with  that  chalky 

324 


The  Funeral 

whiteness  of  dried  bones,  were  passing  by,  carrying  their 
tools  and  wallets.  Furtive  mourners,  dragging  themselves 
away  regretfully  from  tears  and  prayer,  glided  along  the 
margins  of  the  clumps  of  trees,  seeming  to  skirt  them  as 
with  the  silent  flight  of  night-birds,  while  from  the  extremi- 
ties of  Pere  Lachaise  voices  rose — melancholy  calls  an- 
nouncing the  closing  time.  The  day  of  the  cemetery  was  at 
its  end.  The  city  of  the  dead,  handed  over  once  more  to 
Nature,  was  becoming  an  immense  wood  with  open  spaces 
marked  by  crosses,  Down  in  a  valley,  the  window-panes 
of  a  custodian's  house  were  lighted  up.  A  shudder  seemed 
to  run  through  the  air,  losing  itself  in  murraurings  along  the 
dim  paths. 

"  Let  us  go,"  the  two  old  comrades  said  to  each  other, 
gradually  coming  to  feel  the  impression  of  that  twilight, 
which  seemed  colder  than  elsewJiere;  but  before  moving  ofif, 
Hemerlingue,  pursuing  his  train  of  thought,  pointed  to  the 
monument  winged  at  the  four  corners  by  the  draperies  and 
the  outstretched  hands  of  its  sculptured  figures. 

"  Look  there,"  said  he.  "  That  was  the  man  who  under- 
stood the  art  of  keeping  up  appearances." 

Jansoulet  took  his  arm  to  aid  him  in  the  descent. 

"  Ah,  yes,  he  was  clever.  But  you  are  the  most  clever 
of  all,"  he  answered  with  his  terrible  Gascon  intonation. 

Hemerlingue  made  no  protest. 

"  It  is  to  my  wife  that  I  owe  it.  So  I  strongly  recommend 
you  to   make   your  peace   with   her,   because   unless   you 

do " 

"  Oh,  don't  be  afraid.  We  shall  come  on  Saturday.  But 
you  will  take  me  to  see  Le  Merquier." 

And  while  the  two  silhouettes,  the  one  tall  and  square, 
the  other  massive  and  short,  were  passing  out  of  sight  among 
the  twinings  of  the  great  labyrinth,  while  the  voice  of  Jan- 
soulet guiding  his  friend,  "  This  way,  old  fellow — lean  hard 
on  my  arm,"  died  away  by  insensible  degrees,  a  stray  beam 
of  the  setting  sun  fell  upon  and  illuminated  behind  them 
in  the  little  plateau,  an  expressive  and  colossal  bust,  with 
great  brow  beneath  long  swept-back  hair,  and  powerful  and 
ironic  lip — the  bust  of  Balzac  watching  them. 

325 


CHAPTER   XX 

LA   BARONNE   HEMERLINGUE 

Just  at  the  end  of  the  long  vault,  under  which  were  the 
offices  of  Hemerlingue  and  Sons,  the  black  tunnel  which 
Joyeuse  had  for  ten  years  adorned  and  illuminated  with  his 
dreams,  a  monumental  staircase  with  a  wrought-iron  balus- 
trade, a  staircase  of  mediaeval  time,  led  towards  the  left  to 
the  reception  rooms  of  the  baroness,  which  looked  out  on 
the  court-yard  just  above  the  cashier's  ofifiice,  so  that  in  sum- 
mer, when  the  windows  were  open,  the  ring  of  the  gold,  the 
crash  of  the  piles  of  money  scattered  on  the  counters, 
softened  a  little  by  the  rich  and  lofty  hangings  at  the  win- 
dows, made  a  mercantile  accompaniment  to  the  buzzing  con- 
versation of  fashionable  Catholicism. 

The  entrance  struck  at  once  the  note  of  this  house,  as 
of  her  who  did  the  honours  of  it.  A  mixture  of  a  vague 
scent  of  the  sacristy,  with  the  excitement  of  the  Bourse,  and 
the  most  refined  fashion,  these  heterogeneous  elements,  met 
and  crossed  each  other's  path  there,  but  remained  as  much 
apart  as  the  noble  faubourg,  under  whose  patronage  the 
striking  conversion  of  the  Moslem  had  taken  place,  was  from 
the  financial  quarters  where  Hemerlingue  had  his  life  and 
his  friends.  The  Levantine  colony — pretty  numerous  in 
Paris — was  composed  in  great  measure  of  German  Jews, 
bankers  or  brokers  who  had  made  colossal  fortunes  in  the 
East,  and  still  did  business  here,  not  to  lose  the  habit.  The 
colony  showed  itself  regularly  on  the  baroness's  visiting  day. 
Tunisians  on  a  visit  to  Paris  never  failed  to  call  on  the  wife 
of  the  great  banker;  and  old  Colonel  Brahim.  charge 
d'affaires  of  the  Bey,  with  his  flabby  mouth  and  bloodshot 
eyes,  had  his  nap  every  Saturday  in  the  comer  of  the  same 
divan. 

326 


La  Baronne  Hemerlingue 

"  One  seems  to  smell  scorching  in  your  drawing-room, 
mv  child,"  said  the  old  Princess  de  Dions  smilingly  to  the 
newly  named  Marie,  whom  M.  Le  Merquier  and  she  had 
led  to  the  font.  But  the  presence  of  all  these  heretics — 
Jews,  Moslems,  and  even  renegades — of  these  great  over- 
dressed blotched  women,  loaded  with  gold  and  ornaments, 
veritable  bundles  of  clothes,  did  not  hinder  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Germain  from  visiting,  surrounding,  and  looking  after 
the  young  convert,  the  plaything  of  these  noble  ladies,  a  very 
obedient  puppet,  whom  they  showed,  whom  they  took  out, 
and  whose  evangelical  simplicities,  so  piquant  by  contrast 
with  her  past,  they  quoted  everywhere.  Perhaps  deep  down 
in  the  heart  of  her  amiable  patronesses  a  hope  lay  of  meet- 
ing in  this  circle  of  returned  Orientals  some  new  subject  for 
conversion,  an  occasion  for  filling  the  aristocratic  Chapel  of 
Missions  again  with  the  touching  spectacle  of  one  of  those 
adult  baptisms  which  carry  one  back  to  the  first  days  of  the 
Faith,  far  away  on  the  banks  of  the  Jordan ;  baptisms  soon 
to  be  followed  by  a  first  communion,  a  confirmation,  when 
baptismal  vows  are  renewed ;  occasions  when  a  godmother 
may  accompany  her  godchild,  guide  the  young  soul,  share 
in  the  naive  transports  of  a  newly  awakened  belief,  and  may 
also  display  a  choice  of  toilettes,  delicately  graduated  to  the 
importance  of  the  sentiment  of  the  ceremony.  But  not  every 
day  does  it  happen  that  one  of  the  leaders  of  finance  brings 
to  Paris  an  Armenian  slave  as  his  wife. 

A  slave !  That  was  the  blot  in  the  past  of  this  w'oman 
from  the  East,  bought  in  the  bazaar  of  Adrianople  for  the 
Emperor  of  Morocco,  then  sold,  when  he  died  and  his 
harem  was  dispersed,  to  the  young  Bey  Ahmed.  Hemer- 
lingue had  married  her  when  she  passed  from  this  new 
seraglio,  but  she  could  not  be  received  at  Tunis,  where  no 
woman — Moor,  Turk,  or  European — would  consent  to  treat 
a  former  slave  as  an  equal,  on  account  of  a  prejudice  like 
that  which  separates  the  Creoles  from  the  best  disguised 
quadroons.  Even  in  Paris  the  Hemerlingues  found  this  in- 
vincil>le  prejudice  among  the  small  foreign  colonies,  con- 
stituted, as  they  were,  of  little  circles  full  of  susceptibilities 
and  local  traditions.    Yamma  thus  passed  two  or  three  years 

327 


The  Nabob 

in  a  complete  solitude  whose  leisure  and  spiteful  feelings  she 
well  knew  how  to  utilize,  for  she  was  an  ambitious  woman 
endowed  with  extraordinary  will  and  persistence.  She 
learned  French  thoroughly,  said  farewell  to  her  embroidered 
vests  and  pantaloons  of  red  silk,  accustomed  her  figure  and 
her  walk  to  European  toilettes,  to  the  inconvenience  of  long 
dresses,  and  then,  one  night  at  the  opera,  showed  the  aston- 
ished Parisians  the  spectacle,  a  little  uncivilized  still,  but  deli- 
eate,  elegant,  and  original,  of  a  Mohammedan  in  a  costume 
of  Leonard's. 

The  sacrifice  of  her  religion  soon  followed  that  of  her 
costume.  Mme.  Hemerlingue  had  long  abandoned  the  prac- 
tices of  Mohammedan  religion,  when  M.  Le  Merquier,  their 
friend  and  mentor  in  Paris,  showed  them  that  the  baroness's 
public  conversion  would  open  to  her  the  doors  of  that  sec- 
tion of  the  Parisian  world  whose  access  became  more  and 
more  difficult  as  society  became  more  democratic.  Once 
the  Faubourg  Saint-Germain  was  conquered,  all  the  others 
would  follow.  And,  in  fact,  when,  after  the  announcement 
of  the  baptism,  they  learned  that  the  greatest  ladies  in 
France  could  be  seen  at  the  Baroness  Hemerlingue's  Sat- 
urdays, Mmes.  Giigenheim,  Fuernberg,  Cara'iscaki,  Mau- 
rice Trott — all  wives  of  millionaires  celebrated  on  the  mar- 
kets of  Tunis — gave  up  their  prejudices  and  begged  to  be 
invited  to  the  former  slave's  receptions.  Mme.  Jansoulet 
alone — newly  arrived  with  a  stock  of  cumbersome  Oriental 
ideas  in  her  mind,  like  her  ostrich  eggs,  her  narghile  pipe, 
and  the  Tunisian  bric-a-brac  in  her  rooms — protested  against 
what  she  called  an  impropriety,  a  cowardice,  and  declared 
that  she  would  never  set  her  foot  at  her  house.  Soon  a  little 
retrograde  movement  was  felt  round  the  Giigenheims,  the 
Cara'iscaki,  and  the  other  people,  as  happens  at  Paris  every 
time  when  some  irregular  position,  endeavouring  to  estab- 
lish itself,  brings  on  regrets  and  defections.  They  had  gone 
too  far  to  draw  back,  but  they  resolved  to  make  the  value 
of  their  good-will,  of  their  sacrificed  prejudices,  felt,  and 
the  Baroness  Marie  well  understood  the  shade  of  meaning 
in  the  protecting  tone  of  the  Levantines,  treating  her  as 
*'  My  dear  child,"  "  My  dear  good  girl,"  with  an  almost  con- 

328 


La  Baronne  Hemerlingue 

temptuous  pride.  Thenceforward  her  hatred  of  the  Jansou- 
lets  knew  no  bounds — the  complicated  ferocious  hatred  of 
the  seragHo,  with  strangUng  and  the  sack  at  the  end,  per- 
haps more  difficult  to  arrive  at  in  Paris  than  on  the  banks  of 
the  lake  of  El  Bahaira,  but  for  wdiich  she  had  already  pre- 
pared the  stout  sack  and  the  cord. 

One  can  imagine,  knowing  all  tfiis,  what  w'as  the  sur- 
prise and  agitation  of  this  corner  of  exotic  society,  when 
the  news  spread,  not  only  that  the  great  Afchin — as  these 
ladies  called  her — had  consented  to  see  the  baroness,  but 
that  she  would  pay  her  first  visit  on  her  next  Saturday. 
Neither  the  Fuernbergs  nor  the  Trotts  would  wish  to  miss 
such  an  occasion.  On  her  side,  the  baroness  did  everything 
in  her  power  to  give  the  utmost  brilliancy  to  this  solemn 
reparation.  She  wrote,  she  visited,  and  succeeded  so  well, 
that  in  spite  of  the  lateness  of  the  season,  Mme.  Jansoulet, 
on  arriving  at  four  o'clock  at  the  Faubourg  Saint-Honore, 
would  have  seen  drawn  up  before  the  great  arched  door- 
way, side  by  side  with  the  discreet  russet  livery  of  the  Prin- 
cess de  Dion,  and  of  many  authentic  blosotis,  the  preten- 
tious and  fictitious  arms,  the  multicoloured  wheels  of  a  crowd 
of  plutocrat  equipages,  and  the  tall  powdered  lackeys  of  the 
Caraiscaki. 

Above,  in  the  reception  rooms,  was  another  strange  and 
resplendent  crowd.  In  the  first  two  rooms  there  was  a  going 
and  coming,  a  continual  passage  of  rustling  silks  up  to  the 
boudoir  where  the  baroness  sat,  sharing  her  attentions  and 
cajoleries  between  two  very  distinct  camps.  On  one  side 
were  dark  toilettes,  modest  in  appearance,  whose  refine- 
ment was  appreciable  only  to  observant  eyes ;  on  the  other, 
a  wild  burst  of  vivid  colour,  opulent  figures,  rich  diamonds, 
floating  scarfs,  exotic  fashions,  in  which  one  felt  a  regret  for 
a  warmer  climate,  and  more  luxurious  life.  Here  were 
sharp  taps  with  the  fan,  discreet  whispers  from  the  few  men 
present,  some  of  the  bien  pensant  youth,  silent,  immovable, 
sucking  the  handles  of  their  canes,  two  or  three  figures,  up- 
right behind  the  broad  backs  of  their  wives,  speaking  with 
their  heads  bent  forward,  as  if  they  were  offering  contra- 
band goods  for  sale;  and  in  a  corner  the  fine  patriarchal 

329 


The  Nabob 

beard  and  the  violet  cassock  of  an  orthodox  Armenian 
bishop. 

The  baroness,  in  attempting  to  harmonize  these  fashion- 
able diversities,  to  keep  her  rooms  full  until  the  famous 
interview,  moved  about  continually,  took  part  in  ten  differ- 
ent conversations,  raising  her  harmonious  and  velvety  voice 
to  the  twittering  diapason  which  distinguishes  Oriental 
■women,  caressing  and  coaxing,  the  mind  supple  as  the  body, 
touching  on  all  subjects,  and  mixing  in  the  requisite  propor- 
tions fashion  and  charity  sermons,  theatres  and  bazaars,  the 
dressmaker  and  the  confessor.  The  mistress  of  the  house 
imited  a  great  personal  charm  with  this  acquired  science — 
a  science  visible  even  in  her  black  and  very  simple  dress, 
which  brought  out  her  nun-like  pallor,  her  houri-like  eyes, 
her  shining  and  plaited  hair  drawn  back  from  a  narrow, 
child-like  forehead,  a  forehead  of  which  the  small  mouth 
accentuated  the  mystery,  hiding  from  the  inquisitive  the 
former  favourite's  whole  varied  past,  she  who  had  no  age, 
who  knew  not  herself  the  date  of  her  birth,  and  never  re- 
membered to  have  been  a  child. 

Evidently  if  the  absolute  power  of  evil — rare  indeed 
among  women,  influenced  as  they  are  by  their  impression- 
able physical  nature  by  so  many  different  currents — could 
take  possession  of  a  soul,  it  would  be  in  that  of  this  slave, 
moulded  by  basenesses,  revolted  but  patient,  and  complete 
mistress  of  herself,  like  all  those  whom  the  habit  of  veil- 
ing the  eyes  has  accustomed  to  lie  safely  and  unscrupu- 
lously. 

At  this  moment  no  one  could  have  suspected  the  anguish 
she  suffered  ;  to  see  her  kneeling  before  the  princess,  an  old, 
good,  straightforward  soul,  of  whom  the  Fuernberg  was 
always  saying,  "  Call  that  a  princess — that !  " 

"  I  beg  of  you,  godmamma,  don't  go  away  yet." 

She  surrounded  her  with  all  sorts  of  cajoleries,  of  graces, 
of  little  airs,  without  telling  her,  be  sure,  that  she  wanted  to 
keep  her  till  the  arrival  of  the  Jansoulets,  to  add  to  her 
triumph. 

"  But,"  said  the  princess,  pointing  out  to  her  the  ma- 
jestic Armenian,  silent  and  grave,  his  tasselled  hat  on  his 

330 


La  Baronne  Hemerlingue 

knees,  "  I  must  take  this  poor  bishop  to  the  Grand  Saint- 
Christophe,  to  buy  some  medals.  He  would  never  get  on 
without  me." 

"  No,  no,  I  wish — you  must — a  few  minutes  more."  And 
the  baroness  threw  a  furtive  look  on  the  ancient  and  sumptu- 
ous clock  in  a  corner  of  the  room. 

Five  o'clock  already,  and  the  great  Afchin  not  arrived. 
The  Levantines  began  to  laugh  behind  their  fans.  Happily 
tea  was  just  being  served,  also  Spanish  wines,  and  a  crowd 
of  delicious  Turkish  cakes  which  were  only  to  be  had  in  that 
house,  whose  receipts,  brought  away  with  her  by  the  favour- 
ite, had  been  preserved  in  the  harem,  like  some  secrets  of 
confectionery  in  our  convents.  That  made  a  diversion. 
Hemerlingue,  who  on  Saturdays  came  out  of  his  office  from 
time  to  time  to  make  his  bow  to  the  ladies,  was  drinking  a 
glass  of  ]\Iadeira  near  the  little  table  while  talking  to  Mau- 
rice Trott,  once  the  dresser  of  Said-Pasha,  when  his  wife 
approached  him,  gently  and  quietly.  He  knew  what  anger 
this  impenetrable  calm  must  cover,  and  asked  her,  in  a  low 
tone,  timidly : 
"No  one?" 

"  No  one.     You  see  to  what  an  insult  you  expose  me." 
She  smiled,  her  eyes  half  closed,  taking  with  the  end 
of  her  nail  a  crumb  of  cake  from  his  long  black  whiskers, 
but  her  little  transparent  nostrils  trembled  with  a  terrible 
eloquence, 

"  Oh,  she  will  come,"  said  the  banker,  his  mouth  full. 
"  I  am  sure  she  will  come." 

The  noise  of  dresses,  of  a  train  rustling  in  the  next  room 
made  the  baroness  turn  quickly.  But,  to  the  great  joy  of  the 
"  bundles,"  looking  on  from  their  corner,  it  was  not  the 
lady  they  were  expecting. 

This  tall,  elegant  blonde,  with  worn  features  and  irre- 
proachable toilette,  was  not  like  Mile.  Afchin.  She  was  wor- 
thy in  every  way  to  bear  a  name  as  celebrated  as  that  of  Dr. 
Jenkins.  In  the  last  two  or  three  months  the  beautiful  Mme. 
Jenkins  had  greatly  changed,  become  much  older.  In  the 
life  of  a  woman  who  has  long  remained  young  there  comes  a 
time  when  the  years,  which  have  passed  over  her  head  with- 

331 


The  Nabob 

out  leaving  a  wrinkle,  trace  their  passage  all  at  once  bru- 
tally in  indelible  marks.  People  no  longer  say,  on  seeing 
her,  "  How  beautiful  she  is !  "  but  "  How  beautiful  she  must 
have  been !  "  And  this  cruel  way  of  speaking  in  the  past, 
of  throwing  back  to  a  distant  period  that  which  was  but  yes- 
terday a  visible  fact,  marks  a  beginning  of  old  age  and  of 
retirement,  a  change  of  all  her  triumphs  into  memories.  Was 
it  the  disappointment  of  seeing  the  doctor's  wife  arrive,  < 
instead  of  Mme.  Jansoulet,  or  did  the  discredit  which  the 
Duke  de  Mora's  death  had  thrown  on  the  fashionable  physi- 
cian fall  on  her  who  bore  his  name?  There  was  a  little  of 
each  of  these  reasons,  and  perhaps  of  another,  in  the  cool 
greeting  of  the  baroness.  A  slight  greeting  on  the  ends  of 
her  lips,  some  hurried  words,  and  she  returned  to  the  noble 
battalion  nibbling  vigorously  away.  The  room  had  become 
animated  under  the  effects  of  wine.  People  no  longer  whis- 
pered ;  they  talked.  The  lamps  brought  in  added  a  new  bril- 
liancy to  the  gathering,  but  announced  that  it  was  near  its 
close  ;  some  indeed,  not  interested  in  the  great  event,  having 
already  taken  their  leave.  And  still  the  Jansoulets  did  not 
come. 

All  at  once  a  heavy,  hurried  step.  The  Nabob  appeared, 
alone,  buttoned  up  in  his  black  coat,  correctly  dressed,  but 
with  his  face  upset,  his  eyes  haggard,  still  trembling  from 
the  terrible  scene  which  he  had  left. 

She  would  not  come. 

In  the  morning  he  had  told  the  maids  to  dress  madame 
for  three  o'clock,  as  he  did  each  time  he  took  out  the  Levan- 
tine with  him,  when  it  was  necessary  to  move  this  indolent 
person,  who,  not  being  able  to  accept  even  any  responsibility 
whatever,  left  others  to  think,  decide,  act  for  her,  going 
willingly  where  she  was  desired  to  go,  once  she  was  started. 
And  it  was  on  this  amiability  that  he  counted  to  take  her 
to  Hemerlingue's.  But  when,  after  dejeuner,  Jansoulet 
dressed,  superb,  perspiring  with  the  effort  to  put  on  gloves, 
asked  if  madame  would  soon  be  ready,  he  was  told  that  she 
was  not  going  out.  The  matter  was  grave,  so  grave,  that 
putting  on  one  side  all  the  intermediaries  of  valets  and  maids, 
which  they  made  use  of  in  their  conjugal  dialogues,  he  ran 

332 


La  Baronne  Hemerlingue 

up  the  stairs  four  steps  at  once  like  a  gust  of  wind,  and  en- 
tered the  draperied  rooms  of  the  Levantine. 

She  was  still  in  bed,  dressed  in  that  great  open  tunic  of 
silk  of  two  colours,  which  the  Moors  call  a  djehha,  and  in 
a  little  cap  embroidered  with  gold,  from  which  escaped  her 
heavy  long  black  hair,  all  entangled  round  her  moon-shaped 
face,  flushed  from  her  recent  meal.  The  sleeves  of  the  djehba 
pushed  back  showed  two  enormous  shapeless  arms,  loaded 
with  bracelets,  with  long  chains  wandering  through  a  heap 
of  little  mirrors,  of  red  beads,  of  scent-boxes,  of  microscopic 
pipes,  of  cigarette  cases — the  childish  toyshop  collection  of 
a  Moorish  woman  at  her  rising. 

The  room,  filled  with  the  heavy  opium-scented  smoke 
of  Turkish  tobacco,  was  in  similar  disorder.  Negresses 
went  and  came,  slowly  removing  their  mistress's  coffee ;  the 
favourite  gazelle  was  licking  the  dregs  of  a  cup  which  its 
delicate  muzzle  had  overturned  on  the  carpet,  while  seated 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed  with  a  touching  familiarity,  the  melan- 
choly Cabassu  was  reading  aloud  to  madame  a  drama  in 
verse  which  Cardailhac  was  shortly  going  to  produce.  The 
Levantine  was  stupefied  with  this  reading,  absolutely  as- 
tounded. 

"  j\Iy  dear,"  said  she  to  Jansoulet,  in  her  thick  Flem- 
ish accent,  "  I  don't  know  what  our  manager  is  thinking 
of.  I  am  just  reading  this  Revolt,  which  he  is  so  mad 
about.  But  it  is  impossible.  There  is  nothing  dramatic 
about  it." 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  of  the  theatre,"  said  Jansoulet,  furious, 
in  spite  of  his  respect  for  the  daughter  of  the  Afchins. 
"  What,  you  are  not  dressed  yet?  Weren't  you  told  that  we 
were  going  out  ?  " 

They  had  told  her,  but  she  had  begun  to  read  this  stupid 
piece.    And  with  her  sleepy  air : 

"  We  will  go  out  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow !  Impossible.  We  are  expected  to-day. 
A  most  important  visit." 

"  But  where  ?  " 

He  hesitated  a  second. 

"  To  Hemerlingue's." 

333 


The  Nabob 

She  raised  her  great  eyes,  thinking  he  was  making  game 
of  her.  Then  he  told  her  of  his  meeting  with  the  baron  at 
the  funeral  of  de  Mora  and  the  understanding  they  had 
come  to. 

"  Go  there,  if  you  hke,"  said  she  coldly.  "  But  you  little 
know  me  if  you  believe  that  I,  an  Afchin,  will  ever  set  foot 
in  that  slave's  house." 

Cabassu,  prudently  seeing  what  was  likely  to  happen, 
had  fled  into  a  neighbouring  room,  carrying  with  him  the 
five  acts  of  TJic  Revolt  under  his  arm. 

"  Come,"  said  the  Nabob  to  his  wife,  "  I  see  that  you  do 
not  know  the  terrible  position  I  am  in.     Listen." 

Without  thinking  of  the  maids  or  the  negresses,  with  the 
sovereign  indifference  of  an  Oriental  for  his  household,  he 
proceeded  to  picture  his  great  distress,  his  fortune  seques- 
tered over  seas,  his  credit  destroyed  over  here,  his  whole 
career  in  suspense  before  the  judgment  of  the  Chamber,  the 
influence  of  the  Hemerlingues  on  the  judge-advocate,  and 
the  necessity  of  the  sacrifice  at  the  moment  of  all  personal 
feeling  to  such  important  interests.  He  spoke  hotly,  tried 
to  convince  her,  to  carry  her  away.  But  she  merely  an- 
swered him,  "  I  shall  not  go,"  as  if  it  were  only  a  matter  of 
some  unimportant  walk,  a  little  too  long  for  her. 

He  said  trembling : 

"  See,  now,  it  is  not  possible  that  you  should  say  that. 
Think  that  my  fortune  is  at  stake,  the  future  of  our  children, 
the  name  you  bear.  Everything  is  at  stake  in  what  you 
cannot  refuse  to  do." 

He  could  have  spoken  thus  for  hours  and  been  always 
met  by  the  same  firm,  unshakable  obstinacy — an  Afchin 
could  not  visit  a  slave. 

"  Well,  madame,"  said  he  violently,  "  this  slave  is  worth 
more  than  you.  She  has  increased  tenfold  her  husband's 
wealth  by  her  intelligence,  while  you,  on  the  contrary " 

For  the  first  time  in  the  twelve  years  of  their  married 
life  Jansoulet  dared  to  hold  up  his  head  before  his  wife. 
Was  he  ashamed  of  this  crime  of  Vese-majeste,  or  did  he  un- 
derstand that  such  a  remark  would  place  an  impassable  gulf 
between  them  ?    He  changed  his  tone,  knelt  down  before  the 

334 


La   Baronne  Hemerlingue 

bed,  with  that  cheerful  tenderness  when  one  persuades  chil- 
dren to  be  reasonable. 

"  My  little  Martha,  I  beg  of  you — get  up,  dress  yourself. 
It  is  for  your  own  sake  I  ask  it,  for  your  comfort,  for  your 
own  welfare.  What  would  become  of  you  if,  for  a  caprice,  a 
stupid  whim,  we  should  become  poor  ?  " 

But  the  word — poor — represented  absolutely  nothing  to 
the  Levantine.  One  could  speak  of  it  before  her,  as  of  death 
before  little  children.  She  was  not  moved  by  it,  not  knowing 
what  it  was.  She  was  perfectly  determined  to  keep  in  bed  in 
her  djcbba ;  and  to  show  her  decision,  she  lighted  a  new  cigar- 
ette at  her  old  one  just  finished ;  and  while  the  poor  Na- 
bob surrounded  his  "  dear  little  wife  "  with  excuses,  with 
prayers,  with  supplications,  promising  her  a  diadem  of  pearls 
a  hundred  times  more  beautiful  than  her  own,  if  she  would 
come,  she  watched  the  heavy  smoke  rising  to  the  painted 
ceiling,  wrapping  herself  up  in  it  as  in  an  imperturbable 
calm.  At  last,  in  face  of  this  refusal,  this  silence,  this  barrier 
of  headstrong  obstinacy,  Jansoulet  unbridled  his  wrath  and 
rose  up  to  his  full  height : 

"  Come,"  said  he,  "  I  wish  it." 

He  turned  to  the  negresses  : 

"  Dress  your  mistress  at  once." 

And  boor  as  he  was  at  bottom,  the  son  of  a  southern 
nail-maker  asserting  itself  in  this  crisis  which  moved  him  so 
deeply,  he  threw  back  the  coverlids  with  a  brutal  and  con- 
temptuous gesture,  knocking  down  the  innumerable  toys 
they  bore,  and  forcing  the  half-clad  Levantine  to  bound  to 
her  feet  with  a  promptitude  amazing  in  so  massive  a  person. 
She  roared  at  the  outrage,  drew  the  folds  of  her  dalmatic 
against  her  bust,  pushed  her  cap  sideways  on  her  dishevelled 
hair,  and  began  to  abuse  her  husband. 

"  Never,  understand  me,  never !  You  may  drag  me 
sooner  to  this " 

The  filth  flowed  from  her  heavy  lips  as  from  a  spout. 
Jansoulet  could  have  imagined  himself  in  some  frightful  den 
of  the  port  of  Marseilles,  at  some  quarrel  of  prostitutes  and 
bullies,  or  again  at  some  open-air  dispute  between  Genoese, 
^laltese,  and  Proven9al  hags,  gleaning  on  the  quays  round 

335 


The  Nabob 

the  sacks  of  wheat,  and  abusing  each  other,  crouched  in  the 
whirlwinds  of  golden  dust.  She  was  indeed  a  Levantine 
of  a  seaport,  a  spoiled  child,  who,  in  the  evening,  left  alone, 
had  heard  from  her  terrace  or  from  her  gondola  the  sailors 
revile  each  other  in  every  tongue  of  the  Latin  seas,  and  had 
remembered  it  all.  The  wretched  man  looked  at  her,  fright- 
ened, terrified  at  what  she  forced  him  to  hear,  at  her  gro- 
tesque figure,  foaming  and  gasping : 

"  No,  I  will  not  go — no,  I  will  not  go !  " 

And  this  was  the  mother  of  his  children,  a  daughter  of 
the  Afchins !  Suddenly,  at  the  thought  that  his  fate  was  in 
the  hands  of  this  woman,  that  it  would  only  cost  her  a  dress 
to  put  on  to  save  him — and  that  time  was  flying — that  soon 
it  would  be  too  late,  a  criminal  feeling  rose  to  his  brain  and 
distorted  his  features.  He  came  straight  to  her,  his  hands 
contracted,  with  such  a  terrible  expression  that  the  daughter 
of  the  Afchins,  frightened,  rushed,  calling  towards  the  door 
by  which  the  masseur  had  just  gone  out : 

"  Aristide !  " 

This  cry,  the  words,  this  intimacy  of  his  wife  with  a 
servant!  Jansoulet  stopped,  his  rage  suddenly  calmed; 
then,  with  a  gesture  of  disgust,  he  flung  himself  out,  slam- 
ming the  doors,  more  eager  to  fly  the  misfortune  and  the 
horror  whose  presence  he  divined  in  his  own  home,  than  to 
seek  elsewhere  the  help  he  had  been  promised. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  made  his  appearance  at  the 
Hemerlingues',  making  a  despairing  gesture  as  he  entered 
to  the  banker,  and  approached  the  baroness  stammering  the 
ready-made  phrase  he  had  heard  repeated  so  often  the  night 
of  his  ball,  "  His  wife,  very  unwell — most  grieved  not  to 
have  been  able  to  come — "  She  did  not  give  him  time  to 
finish,  rose  slowly,  unwound  herself  like  a  long  and  slender 
snake  from  the  pleated  folds  of  her  tight  dress,  and  said, 
without  looking  at  him,  "Oh,  I  knew — I  knew!"  then 
changed  her  place  and  took  no  more  notice  of  him.  He 
attempted  to  approach  Hemerlingue,  but  the  good  man 
seemed  absorbed  in  his  conversation  with  Maurice  Trott. 
Then  he  went  to  sit  down  near  Mme.  Jenkins,  whose  isola- 
tion seemed  like  his  own.     But,  even  while  talking  to  the 

336 


La  Baronne  Hemerlingue 

poor  woman,  as  languid  as  he  was  preoccupied,  he  was 
watching  the  baroness  doing  the  honours  of  this  drawing- 
room,  so  comfortable  when  compared  with  his  own  gilded 
halls. 

It  was  time  to  leave.  Mme.  Hemerlingue  went  to  the 
door  with  some  of  the  ladies,  presented  her  forehead  to  the 
old  princess,  bent  under  the  benediction  of  the  Armenian 
bishop,  nodded  with  a  smile  to  the  young  men  with  the 
canes,  found  for  each  the  fitting  adieu  with  perfect  ease ;  and 
the  wretched  man  could  not  prevent  himself  from  comparing 
this  Eastern  slave,  so  Parisian,  so  distinguished  in  the  best 
society  of  the  world,  with  the  other,  the  European  brutalized 
by  the  East,  stupefied  with  Turkish  tobacco,  and  swollen 
with  idleness.  His  ambitions,  his  pride  as  a  husband,  w-ere 
extinguished  and  humiliated  in  this  marriage  of  which  he 
saw  the  danger  and  the  emptiness — a  final  cruelty  of  fate 
taking  from  him  even  the  refuge  of  personal  happiness  from 
all  his  public  disasters. 

Little  by  little  the  room  w-as  emptied.  The  Levantines 
disappeared  one  after  another,  leaving  each  time  an  immense 
void  in  their  place.  Mme.  Jenkins  was  gone,  and  only  two 
or  three  ladies  remained  whom  Jansoulet  did  not  know,  and 
behind  whom  the  mistress  of  the  house  seemed  to  shelter 
herself  from  him.  But  Hemerlingue  was  free,  and  the  Na- 
bob rejoined  him  at  the  moment  when  he  was  furtively 
escaping  to  his  offices  on  the  same  floor  opposite  his  rooms. 
Jansoulet  went  out  with  him,  forgetting  in  his  trouble  to 
salute  the  baroness,  and  once  on  the  antechamber  staircase, 
Hemerlingue,  cold  and  reserved  while  he  was  under  his 
wife's  eye,  expanded  a  little. 

"  It  is  verv'  annoying,"  said  he  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  he 
feared  to  be  overheard,  "  that  Mme.  Jansoulet  has  not  been 
willing  to  come." 

Jansoulet  answered  him  by  a  movement  of  despair  and 
savage  helplessness. 

"  Annoying,  annoying,"  repeated  the  other  in  a  whisper, 
and  feeling  for  his  key  in  his  pocket. 

"  Come,  old  fellow,"  said  the  Nabob,  taking  his  hand, 
"  there's  no  reason,  because  our  wives  don't  agree —    That 

337 


The  Nabob 

doesn't  hinder  us  from  remaining  friends.  What  a  good  chat 
the  other  day,  eh  ?  " 

"  No  doubt,"  said  the  baron,  disengaging  himself,  as  he 
opened  the  door  noiselessly,  showing  the  deep  workroom, 
whose  lamp  burned  solitarily  before  the  enormous  empty 
chair.  "  Come,  good-bye,  I  must  go ;  I  have  my  mail  to 
despatch." 

"  Ya  didon,  monci "  (But  look  here,  sir),  said  the  poor 
Nabob,  trying  to  joke,  and  using  the  patois  of  the  south  to 
recall  to  his  old  chum  all  the  pleasant  memories  stirred  up 
the  other  evening.  "  Our  visit  to  Le  Merquier  still  holds 
good.  The  picture  we  were  going  to  present  to  him,  you 
know.    What  day  ?  " 

"  Ah,  yes,  Le  Merquier — true — eh — w^ell,  soon.  I  will 
W'rite  to  you." 

"  Really  ?    You  know  it  is  very  important." 

"  Yes,  yes.     I  will  write  to  you.     Good-bye." 

And  the  big  man  shut  his  door  in  a  hurry,  as  if  he  were 
afraid  of  his  wife  coming. 

Two  days  after,  the  Nabob  received  a  note  from  Hemer- 
lingue,  almost  unreadable  on  account  of  the  complicated 
scrawls,  of  abbreviations  more  or  less  commercial,  under 
which  the  ex-sutler  hid  his  entire  want  of  spelling : 

My  dear  old  Com/ — I  cannot  accom/  you  to  Le  Mer/. 
Too  bus/  just  now.  Besid/  y/  will  be  bet/  alone  to  tal/  Go 
th/  bold/.    You  are  exp/.     A/  Cassette,  ev/  morn/  8  to  lo. 

Yours  faith/ 

Hem. 

Below,  as  a  postscript,  a  very  small  hand  had  written 
very  legibly : 

"A  religious  picture,  as  good  as  possible." 

What  was  he  to  think  of  this  letter?  Was  there  real 
good-will  in  it,  or  polite  evasion?  In  any  case  hesitation 
was  no  longer  possible.  Time  pressed.  Jansoulet  made  a 
bold  effort,  then — for  he  was  very  frightened  of  Le  Merquier 
— and  called  on  him  one  morning. 

338 


La  Baronne  Hemerlingue 

Our  strange  Paris,  alike  in  its  population  and  its  aspects, 
seems  a  specimen  map  of  the  whole  world.  In  the  Marais 
there  are  narrow  streets,  with  old  sculptured  worm-eaten 
doors,  with  overhanging  gables  and  balconies,  which  remind 
you  of  old  Heidelberg.  The  Faubourg  Saint-Honore,  lying 
round  the  Russian  church  with  its  white  minarets  and  golden 
domes,  seems  a  part  of  Moscow.  On  Montmartre  I  know  a 
picturesque  and  crowded  corner  which  is  simply  Algiers. 
Little,  low,  clean  houses,  each  with  its  brass  plate  and  little 
front  garden,  are  English  streets  between  Neuilly  and  the 
Champs-Elysees,  while  all  behind  the  apse  of  Saint-Sulpice, 
the  Rue  Feron,  the  Rue  Cassette,  lying  peaceably  in  the 
shadow  of  its  great  towers,  roughly  paved,  their  doors  each 
wdth  its  knocker,  seem  lifted  out  of  some  provincial  and 
religious  tovi^n — Tours  or  Orleans,  for  example — in  the  dis- 
trict of  the  cathedral  or  the  palace,  where  the  great  over- 
hanging trees  in  the  gardens  rock  themselves  to  the  sound 
of  the  bells  and  the  choir. 

It  was  there,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Catholic  Club 
— of  which  he  had  just  been  made  honorary  president — that 
M.  Le  Merquier  lived.  He  was  avocat,  deputy  for  Lyons, 
business  man  of  all  the  great  communities  of  France ;  and 
Hemerlingue,  moved  by  a  deep-seated  instinct,  had  intrusted 
him  with  the  afifairs  of  his  firm. 

He  arrived  before  nine  o'clock  at  an  old  mansion  of 
which  the  ground  floor  was  occupied  by  a  religious  book- 
shop, asleep  in  the  odour  of  the  sacristy,  and  of  the  thick 
gray  paper  on  which  the  stories  of  miracles  are  printed  for 
hawkers,  and  mounted  the  great  whitewashed  convent  stair- 
way. Jansoulet  was  touched  by  this  provincial  and  Catholic 
atmosphere,  in  which  revived  the  souvenirs  of  his  past  in  the 
south,  impressions  of  infancy  still  intact,  thanks  to  his  long 
absence  from  home  ;  and  since  his  arrival  at  Paris  he  had  had 
neither  the  time  nor  the  occasion  to  call  them  in  question. 
Fashionable  hypocrisy  had  presented  itself  to  him  in  all  its 
forms  save  that  of  religious  integrity,  and  he  refused  now  to 
believe  in  the  venality  of  a  man  who  lived  in  such  surround- 
ings. Introduced  into  the  ai'ocat's  waiting-room — a  vast 
parlour  with  fine  white  muslin  curtains,  having  for  its  sole 

339  Vol.  i8— P 


The  Nabob 

ornament  a  large  and  beautiful  copy  of  Tintoretto's  Dead 
Christ — his  doubt  and  trouble  changed  into  indignant  con- 
viction. It  was  not  possible !  He  had  been  deceived  as  to 
Le  Merquier.  There  was  surely  some  bold  slander  in  it, 
such  as  so  easily  spreads  in  Paris — or  perhaps  it  was  one  of 
those  ferocious  snares  among  which  he  had  stumbled  for  six 
months.  No,  this  stern  conscience,  so  well  known  in  Parlia- 
ment and  the  courts,  this  cold  and  austere  personage,  could 
not  be  treated  like  those  great  swollen  pashas  with  loosened 
waist-belts  and  floating  sleeves  open  to  conceal  the  bags  of 
gold.  He  would  only  expose  himself  to  a  scandalous  re- 
fusal, to  the  legitimate  revolt  of  outraged  honour,  if  he 
attempted  such  means  of  corruption. 

The  Nabob  told  himself  all  this,  as  he  sat  on  the  oak 
bench  which  ran  round  the  room,  a  bench  polished  with 
serge  dresses  and  the  rough  cloth  of  cassocks.  In  spite 
of  the  early  hour  several  persons  were  waiting  there  with 
him.  A  Dominican,  ascetic  and  serene,  walking  up  and 
down  with  great  strides ;  two  sisters  of  charity,  buried  under 
their  caps,  counting  long  rosaries  which  measured  their 
time  of  waiting;  priests  from  Lyons,  recognisable  by  the 
shape  of  their  hats ;  others  reserved  and  severe  in  air,  sitting 
at  the  great  ebony  table  which  filled  the  middle  of  the  room, 
and  turning  over  some  of  those  pious  journals  printed  at 
Fouvieres,  just  above  Lyons,  the  Echo  of  Purgatory,  the 
Rose-Bush  of  Mary,  which  give  as  a  present  to  all  yearly  sub- 
scribers pontifical  indulgences  and  remissions  of  future  sins. 
Some  muttered  words,  a  stifled  cough,  the  light  whispered 
prayers  of  the  sisters,  recalled  to  Jansoulet  the  distant  and 
confused  sensation  of  the  hours  of  waiting  in  the  corner  of  his 
village  church  round  the  confessional  on  the  eves  of  the  great 
festivals  of  the  Church. 

At  last  his  turn  came,  and  if  a  doubt  as  to  M.  Le  Merquier 
had  remained,  he  doubted  no  longer  when  he  saw  this  great 
office,  simple  and  severe,  yet  a  little  more  ornate  than  the 
waiting-room,  a  fitting  frame  for  the  austerity  of  the  lawyer's 
principles,  and  for  his  thin  form,  tall,  stooping,  narrow- 
shouldered,  squeezed  into  a  black  coat  too  short  in  the 
sleeves,  from  which  protruded  two  black  fists,  broad  and  flat, 

340 


La  Baronne  Hemerlingue 

two  sticks  of  Indian  ink  with  hieroglyphs  of  great  veins. 
The  clerical  deputy  had,  with  the  leaden  hue  of  a  Lyonnese 
grown  mouldy  between  his  two  rivers,  a  certain  life  of 
expression  which  he  owed  to  his  double  look — sometimes 
sparkling,  but  impenetrable  behind  the  glass  of  his  spec- 
tacles ;  more  often,  vivid,  mistrustful,  and  dark,  above  these 
same  glasses,  surrounded  by  the  shadow  which  a  lifted  eye 
and  a  stooping  head  gives  the  eyebrow. 

After  a  greeting  almost  cordial  in  comparison  with  the 
cold  bow  which  the  two  colleagues  exchanged  at  the  Cham- 
ber, a  "  I  was  expecting  you  "  in  which  perhaps  an  intention 
showed  itself,  the  lawyer  pointed  the  Nabob  into  a  scat  near 
his  desk,  told  the  smug  domestic  in  black  not  to  come  till  he 
w-as  summoned,  arranged  a  few  papers,  after  which,  sinking 
into  his  arm-chair  with  the  attitude  of  a  man  ready  to  listen, 
who  becomes  all  ears,  his  legs  crossed,  he  rested  his  chin  on 
his  hand,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  great  rep  curtain  falling  to 
the  ground  in  front  of  him. 

The  moment  was  decisive,  the  situation  embarrassing. 
Jansoulet  did  not  hesitate.  It  was  one  of  the  poor  Nabob's 
pretensions  to  know  men  as  well  as  Mora.  And  this  instinct, 
which,  said  he,  had  never  deceived  him,  warned  him  that  he 
v;as  at  that  moment  dealing  with  a  rigid  and  unshakable 
honesty,  a  conscience  in  hard  stone,  untouchable  by  pick- 
axe or  powder.  "  My  conscience !  "  Suddenly  he  changed 
his  programme,  threw  to  the  winds  the  tricks  and  equivoca- 
tions which  embarrassed  his  open  and  courageous  dispo- 
sition, and,  head  high  and  heart  open,  held  to  this  honest 
man  a  language  he  was  born  to  understand. 

"  Do  not  be  astonished,  my  dear  colleague," — his  voice 
trembled,  but  soon  became  firm  in  the  conviction  of  his  de- 
fence— "  do  not  be  astonished  if  I  am  come  to  find  you  here 
instead  of  asking  simply  to  be  heard  by  the  third  commit- 
tee. The  explanation  which  I  have  to  make  to  you  is  so 
delicate  and  confidential  that  it  would  have  been  impossible 
to  make  it  publicly  before  my  colleagues." 

Maitre  Le  Merquier,  above  his  spectacles,  looked  at  the 
curtain  with  a  disturbed  air.  Evidently  the  conversation  was 
taking  an  unexpected  turn. 

341 


The  Nabob 

"  I  do  not  enter  on  the  main  question,"  said  the  Nabob. 
"  Your  report,  I  am  assured,  is  impartial  and  loyal,  such  as 
your  conscience  has  dictated  to  you.  Only  there  are  some 
heart-breaking  calumnies  spread  about  me  to  which  I  have 
not  answered,  and  which  have  perhaps  influenced  the  opinion 
of  the  committee.  It  is  on  this  subject  that  I  wish  to  speak 
to  you.  I  know  the  confidence  with  which  you  are  honoured 
by  your  colleagues,  M.  Le  Merquier,  and  that,  when  I  shall 
have  convinced  you,  your  word  will  be  enough  without 
forcing  me  to  lay  bare  my  distress  to  them  all.  You  know 
the  accusation — the  most  terrible,  the  most  ignoble.  There 
are  so  many  people  who  might  be  deceived  by  it.  My 
enemies  have  given  names,  dates,  addresses.  Well,  I  bring 
you  the  proofs  of  my  innocence.  I  lay  them  bare  before 
you — you  only — for  I  have  grave  reasons  for  keeping  the 
whole  affair  secret." 

Then  he  showed  the  lawyer  a  certificate  from  the  Consu- 
late of  Tunis,  that  during  twenty  years  he  had  only  left  the 
principality  twice — the  first  time  to  see  his  dying  father  at 
Bourg-Saint  Andeol ;  the  second,  to  make,  wdth  the  Bey,  a 
visit  of  three  days  to  his  chateau  of  Saint-Romans. 

"  How  comes  it,  then,  that  with  a  document  so  conclusive 
in  my  hands  I  have  not  brought  my  accusers  before  the 
courts  to  contradict  and  confound  them?  Alas,  monsieur, 
there  are  cruel  responsibilities  in  families.  I  have  a  brother, 
a  poor  fellow,  weak  and  spoiled,  who  has  for  long  wallowed 
in  the  mud  of  Paris,  who  has  left  there  his  intelligence  and 
his  honour.  Has  he  descended  to  that  degree  of  baseness 
which  I,  in  his  name,  am  accused  of?  I  have  not  dared  to 
find  out.  All  I  can  say  is,  that  my  poor  father,  who  knew 
more  than  any  one  in  the  family  of  it,  w'hispered  to  me  in 
dying,  '  Bernard,  it  is  your  elder  brother  who  has  killed 
me.     I  die  of  shame,  my  child.' " 

He  paused,  compelled  by  his  suppressed  emotion  ;  then  : 

"  My  father  Is  dead,  Maitre  Le  Merquier,  but  my  mother 
still  lives,  and  it  is  for  her  sake,  for  her  peace,  that  I  have 
held  back,  that  I  hold  back  still,  before  the  scandal  of  my  jus- 
tification. Up  to  now,  in  fact,  the  mud  thrown  at  me  has  not 
touched  her ;  it  only  comes  from  a  certain  class,  in  a  special 


La  Baronne  Hemerlingue 

press,  a  thousand  leagues  away  from  the  poor  woman.  But 
law  courts,  a  trial — it  would  be  proclaiming  our  misfortune 
from  one  end  of  France  to  the  other,  the  articles  of  the  offi- 
cial paper  reproduced  by  all  the  journals,  even  those  of  the 
little  district  where  my  mother  lives.  The  calumny,  my  de- 
fence, her  two  children  covered  with  shame  by  the  one 
stroke,  the  name — the  only  pride  of  the  old  peasant — forever 
disgraced.  It  w'ould  be  too  much  for  her.  It  would  be 
enough  to  kill  her.  And  truly,  I  find  it  enough,  too.  That  is 
why  I  have  had  the  courage  to  be  silent,  to  weary,  if  I  could, 
my  enemies  by  silence.  But  I  need  some  one  to  answer  for 
me  in  the  Chamber.  It  must  not  have  the  right  to  expel  me 
for  reasons  which  would  dishonour  me,  and  since  it  has 
chosen  you  as  the  chairman  of  the  committee,  I  am  come  to 
tell  you  everything,  as  to  a  confessor,  to  a  priest,  begging 
you  not  to  divulge  anything  of  this  conversation,  even  in  the 
interests  of  my  case.  I  only  ask  of  you,  my  dear  colleague, 
absolute  silence  ;  for  the  rest,  I  relv  on  vour  justice  and  your 
loyalty." 

He  rose,  ready  to  go,  and  Le  Merquier  did  not  move, 
still  asking  the  green  curtain  in  front  of  him,  as  if  seeking 
inspiration  for  his  answer  there.    At  last  he  said : 

"  It  shall  be  as  you  desire,  my  dear  colleague.  This  con- 
fidence shall  remain  between  us.  You  have  told  me  nothing, 
I  have  heard  nothing." 

The  Nabob,  still  heated  with  his  burst  of  confidence, 
which  demanded,  it  seemed  to  him,  a  cordial  response,  a 
pressure  of  the  hand,  was  seized  w^ith  a  strange  uneasiness. 
This  coolness,  this  absent  look,  so  unnerved  him  that  he  was 
at  the  door  with  the  awkward  bow  of  one  who  feels  himself 
importunate,  when  the  other  stopped  him. 

"  Wait,  then,  my  dear  colleague.  What  a  hurry  you  are 
in  to  leave  me !  A  few  moments,  I  beg  of  you.  I  am  too  hap- 
py to  have  a  chat  with  a  man  like  you.  Besides,  we  have 
more  than  one  common  bond.  Our  friend  Hemerlingue  ha; 
told  me  that  you,  too,  are  much  interested  in  pictures." 

Jansoulet  trembled^  The  two  words—"  Hemerlingue," 
"  pictures  " — meeting  in  the  same  phrase  so  unexpectedly, 
restored  all  his  doubts,  all  his  perplexities.    He  did  not  give 

343 


The  Nabob 

himself  away  yet,  however,  and  let  Le  Merquier  advance, 
word  by  word,  testing  the  ground  for  his  stumbling  advances. 
People  had  told  him  often  of  the  collection  of  his  honourable 
colleague.  "  Would  it  be  indiscreet  to  ask  the  favour  of 
being  admitted,  to " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  should  feel  much  honoured,"  said  the 
Nabob,  tickled  in  the  most  sensible — since  the  most  costly — 
point  of  his  vanity ;  and  looking  round  him  at  the  walls  of 
the  room,  he  added  with  the  tone  of  a  connoisseur,  '*  You 
have  some  fine  things,  too." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  other  modestly,  "  just  a  few  canvases. 
Painting  is  so  dear  now,  it  is  a  taste  so  difficult  to  satisfy,  a 
true  passion  de  luxe — a  passion  for  a  Nabob,"  said  he,  smil- 
ing, with  a  furtive  look  over  his  glasses. 

They  were  two  prudent  players,  face  to  face  ;  but  Jansou- 
let  was  a  little  astray  in  this  new  situation,  where  he  who 
only  knew  how  to  be  bold,  had  to  be  on  his  guard. 

"  When  I  think,"  murmured  the  lawyer,  "  that  I  have 
been  ten  years  covering  these  walls,  and  that  I  have  still  this 
panel  to  fill." 

In  fact,  at  the  most  conspicuous  place  on  the  wall  there 
was  an  empty  place,  emptied  rather,  for  a  great  gold-headed 
nail  near  the  ceiling  showed  the  visible,  almost  clumsy, 
trace  of  the  snare  laid  for  the  poor  simpleton,  who  let  him- 
self be  taken  in  it  so  foolishly. 

"  My  dear  M.  Le  Merquier,"  said  he  with  his  engaging, 
good-natured  voice,  "  I  have  a  Virgin  of  Tintoretto's  just  the 
size  of  your  panel." 

Impossible  to  read  anything  in  the  eyes  of  the  lawyer, 
this  time  hidden  under  their  overhanging  brows. 

"  Permit  me  to  hang  it  there,  opposite  your  table.  That 
will  help  you  to  think  sometimes  of  me." 

"And  to  soften  the  severities  of  my  report,  too,  sir?" 
cried  Le  Merquier,  formidable  and  upright,  his  hand  on  the 
bell.  "  I  have  seen  many  shamefess  things  in  my  life,  but 
never  anything  like  this.  Such  offers  to  me,  in  my  own 
house !  " 

"  But,  my  dear  colleague,  I  swear  to  you " 

"  Show  him  out,"  said  the  jawyer  to  the  hang-dog  servant 

344 


La  Baronne  Hemerlingue 

who  had  just  entered;  and  from  the  middle  of  his  office, 
whose  door  remained  open,  before  all  the  waiting-room, 
where  the  paternosters  were  silent,  he  pursued  Jansoulet — 
who  slunk  off  murmuring  excuses  to  the  door — with  these 
terrible  words : 

"  You  have  outraged  the  honour  of  the  Chamber  in  my 
person,  sir.  Our  colleagues  shall  be  informed  of  it  this  very 
day  ;  and,  this  crime  coming  after  your  others,  you  will  learn 
to  your  cost  that  Paris  is  not  the  East,  and  that  here  we  do 
not  make  shameless  traffic  of  the  human  conscience." 

Then,  after  having  chased  the  seller  from  the  temple, 
the  just  man  closed  his  door,  and  approaching  the  mysteri- 
ous green  curtain,  said  in  a  tone  that  sounded  soft  amidst 
his  pretended  anger: 

"  Is  that  what  you  wanted,  Baroness  Marie  ?  " 


34S 


XXI 

THE    SITTING 

That  morning  there  were  no  guests  to  lunch  at  32 
Place  Vendome,  so  that  tQWards  one  o'clock  might  have 
been  seen  the  majestic  form  of  M.  Barreau,  gleaming  white 
at  the  gate,  among  four  or  five  of  his  scullions  in  their  cook's 
caps,  and  as  many  stable-boys  in  Scotch  caps — an  imposing 
group,  which  gave  to  the  house  the  aspect  of  an  hotel  where 
the  staff  was  taking  the  air  between  the  arrivals  of  the  trains. 
To  complete  the  resemblance,  a  cab  drew  up  before  the  door 
and  the  driver  took  down  an  old  leather  trunk,  while  a  tall 
old  woman,  her  upright  figure  wrapped  in  a  little  green 
shawl,  jumped  lightly  to  the  footpath,  a  basket  on  her  arm, 
looked  at  the  number  with  great  attention,  then  approached 
the  servants  to  ask  if  it  was  there  that  M.  Bernard  Jansoulet 
lived. 

"  It  is  here,"  was  the  answer;  "  but  he  is  not  in." 

"  That  does  not  matter,"  said  the  old  lady  simply. 

She  returned  to  the  driver,  who  put  down  her  trunk  in 
the  porch,  and  paid  him,  returning  her  purse  to  her  pocket 
at  once  with  a  gesture  that  said  much  for  the  caution  of  the 
provincial. 

Since  Jansoulet  had  been  deputy  for  Corsica,  the  do- 
mestics had  seen  so  many  strange  and  exotic  figures  at  his 
house,  that  they  were  not  surprised  at  this  sunburnt  woman, 
with  eyes  glowing  like  coals,  a  true  Corsican  under  her 
severe  coif,  but  different  from  the  ordinary  provincial  in  the 
ease  and  tranquility  of  her  manners. 

"  What,  the  master  is  not  here  ?  "  said  she,  with  an  intona- 
tion which  seemed  better  fitted  for  farm  people  in  her  part 
of  the  country,  than  for  the  insolent  servants  of  a  great 
Parisian  mansion. 

346 


The  Sitting 


"  No,  the  master  is  not  here." 

"  And  the  children  ?  " 

"  They  are  at  lessons.    You  cannot  see  them." 

"  And  madame  ?  " 

"  She  is  asleep.    No  one  sees  her  before  three  o'clock." 

It  seemed  to  astonish  the  good  woman  a  little  that  any 
one  could  stay  in  bed  so  late ;  but  the  tact  which  guides  a 
refined  nature,  even  without  education,  prevented  her  from 
saying  anything  before  the  servants,  and  she  asked  for  Paul 
de  Gery. 

"  He  is  abroad." 

"  Bompain  Jean-Baptiste,  then." 

"  He  is  with  monsieur  at  the  sitting." 

Her  great  gray  eyebrows  wrinkled. 

"  It  does  not  matter;  take  up  my  trunk  just  the  same." 

And  with  a  little  malicious  twinkle  of  her  eye,  a  proud 
revenge  for  their  insolent  looks,  she  added :  "  I  am  his 
mother." 

The  scullions  and  stable-boys  drew  back  respectfully. 
;M.  Barreau  raised  his  cap : 

"  I  thought  I  had  seen  madame  somewhere." 

"  And  I  too,  my  lad,"  answered  Mme.  Jansoulet,  who 
shivered  still  at  the  remembrance  of  the  Bey's  fete. 

"  My  lad,"  to  M.  Barreau,  to  a  man  of  his  importance ! 
It  raised  her  at  once  to  a  very  high  place  in  the  esteem  of 
the  others. 

Well !  grandeur  and  splendour  hardly  dazzled  this  cour- 
ageous old  lady.  She  did  not  go  into  ecstasies  over  gilding 
and  petty  baubles,  and  as  she  walked  up  the  grand  stair- 
case behind  her  trunk,  the  baskets  of  flowers  on  the  land- 
ings, the  lamps  held  by  bronze  statues,  did  not  prevent  her 
from  noticing  that  there  was  an  inch  of  dust  on  the  balus- 
trade, and  holes  in  the  carpet.  She  was  taken  to  the  rooms 
on  the  second  floor  belonging  to  the  Levantine  and  her 
children  ;  and  there,  in  an  apartment  used  as  a  linen-room, 
which  seemed  to  be  near  the  school-room  (to  judge  by  the 
murmur  of  children's  voices),  she  waited  alone,  her  basket 
on  her  knees,  for  the  return  of  her  Bernard,  perhaps  the 
waking  of  her  daughter-in-law,  or  the  great  joy  of  embracing 

347 


The  Nabob 

her  grandchildren.  What  she  saw  around  her  gave  her  an 
idea  of  the  disorder  of  this  house  left  to  the  care  of  the  serv- 
ants, without  the  oversight  and  foreseeing  activity  of  a  mis- 
tress. The  linen  was  heaped  in  disorder,  piles  on  piles  in 
great  wide-open  cupboards,  fine  linen  sheets  and  table-cloths 
crumpled  up,  the  locks  prevented  from  shutting  by  pieces  of 
torn  lace,  which  no  one  took  the  trouble  to  mend.  And  yet 
there  were  many  servants  about — negresses  in  yellow  Ma- 
dras muslin,  who  came  to  snatch  here  a  towel,  there  a  table- 
cloth, walking  among  the  scattered  domestic  treasures, 
dragging  with  their  great  flat  feet  frills  of  fine  lace  from 
a  petticoat  which  some  lady's-maid  had  thrown  down — 
thimble  here,  scissors  there — ready  to  pick  up  again  in  a 
few  minutes. 

Jansoulet's  mother  was  doubly  wounded.  The  half- 
rustic  artisan  in  her  was  outraged  in  the  tenderness,  the 
respect,  the  sweet  unreasonableness  the  woman  of  the  prov- 
inces feels  towards  a  full  linen  cupboard — a  cupboard  filled 
piece  by  piece,  full  of  relics  of  past  struggles,  whose  con- 
tents grow  finer  little  by  little,  the  first  token  of  comfort,  of 
wealth,  in  the  house.  Besides,  she  had  held  the  distaff  from 
morning  till  night,  and  if  the  housewife  in  her  was  angry, 
the  spinner  could  have  wept  at  the  profanation.  At  last, 
unable  to  contain  herself  longer,  she  rose,  and  actively,  her 
little  shawl  displaced  at  each  movement,  she  set  herself  to 
pick  up,  straighten,  and  carefully  fold  this  magnificent  linen, 
as  she  used  to  do  in  the  fields  of  Saint-Romans,  when  she 
gave  herself  the  treat  of  a  grand  washing-day,  with  twenty 
^;vasherwomen,  the  clothes-baskets  flowing  over  with  float- 
ing- whiteness,  and  the  sheets  flapping  in  the  morning  wind 
on  the  clothes-lines.  She  was  in  the  midst  of  this  occupation, 
forgetting  her  journey,  forgetting  Paris,  even  the  place 
where  she  was,  when  a  stout,  thick-set,  bearded  man,  with 
varnished  boots  and  a  velvet  jacket,  over  the  torso  of  a 
bull,  came  into  the  linen-room. 

"  What !     Cabassu  !  " 

"  You  here,  Mme.  Frangoise  !  What  a  surprise  !  "  said 
the  masseur,  staring  like  a  bronze  figure. 

"  Yes,  my  brave  Cabassu,  it  is  I.     I  have  just  arrived ; 

348 


The  Sitting 


and  as  you  see,  I  am  at  -work  already.     It  made  my  heart 
bleed  to  see  all  this  muddle." 

"You  came  up  for  the  sitting,  then?" 

"What  sitting?" 

"  Why,  the  grand  sitting  of  the  legislative  body.  It's 
to-day." 

"  Dear  me,  no.  What  has  that  got  to  do  with  me?  I 
should  understand  nothing  at  all  about  it.  No,  I  came  be- 
cause I  wanted  to  know  my  little  Jansoulets,  and  then,  I  was 
beginning  to  feel  uneasy.  I  have  written  several  times  with- 
out getting  an  answer.  I  was  afraid  that  there  was  a  child 
sick,  that  Bernard's  business  was  going  wrong — all  sorts  of 
ideas.  At  last  I  got  seriously  worried,  and  came  away  at 
once.    They  are  well  here,  they  tell  me." 

"  Yes,  Mme.  Frangoise.  Thank  God,  every  one  is  quite 
well." 

"  And  Bernard.  His  business — is  that  going  on  as  he 
v.ants  it  to?" 

"  Well,  you  know  one  has  always  one's  little  worries  in 
life — still,  I  don't  think  he  should  complain.  But,  now  I 
think  of  it,  you  must  be  hungry.  I  will  go  and  make  them 
bring  you  something." 

He  was  going  to  ring,  more  at  home  and  at  ease  than  the 
old  mother  herself.    She  stopped  him. 

"  No,  no,  I  don't  want  anything.  I  have  still  something 
left  in  my  basket."  And  she  put  two  figs  and  a  crust  of 
bread  on  the  edge  of  the  table.  Then,  while  she  was  eating : 
"And  you,  lad,  your  business?  You  look  very  much 
sprucer  than  you  did  the  last  time  you  were  at  Bourg.  How 
smart  you  are  !     What  do  you  do  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  Professor  of  massage,"  said  Aristide  gravely. 

"  Professor — you  ?  "  said  she  with  respectful  astonish- 
ment ;  but  she  did  not  dare  ask  him  what  he  taught,  and 
Cabassu,  who  felt  such  questions  a  little  embarrassing,  has- 
tened to  change  the  subject. 

"  Shall  I  go  and  find  the  children?  Haven't  they  told 
them  that  their  grandmother  is  here?" 

"  I  didn't  want  to  disturb  thsm  at  their  work.  But  I  be- 
lieve it  must  be  over  now — listen !  " 

349 


The  Nabob 

Behind  the  door  they  could  hear  the  shufflnig  impatience 
of  the  children  anxious  to  be  out  in  the  open  air,  and  the  old 
woman  enjoyed  this  state  of  things,  doubling  her  maternal 
desire,  and  hindering  her  from  doing  anything  to  hasten  its 
pleasure.  At  last  the  door  opened.  The  tutor  came  out 
first — a  priest  with  a  pointed  nose  and  great  cheek-bones, 
whom  we  have  met  before  at  the  great  dejeuners.  On  bad 
terms  with  his  bishop,  he  had  left  the  diocese  where  he 
had  been  engaged,  and  in  the  precarious  position  of  an 
unattached  priest — for  the  clergy  have  their  Bohemians  too 
— he  was  glad  to  teach  the  little  Jansoulets,  recently  turned 
out  of  the  Bourdaloue  College.  With  his  arrogant,  solemn 
air,  overweighted  with  responsibilities,  which  would  have 
become  the  prelates  charged  with  the  education  of  the 
dauphins  of  France,  he  preceded  three  curled  and  gloved 
little  gentlemen  in  short  jackets,  with  leather  knapsacks,  and 
great  red  stockings  reaching  half-way  up  their  little  thin 
legs,  in  complete  suits  of  cyclist  dress,  ready  to  mount, 

"  My  children,"  said  Cabassu,  ''  that  is  Mme.  Jansoulet, 
youf  gratidmother,  who  has  come  to  Paris  expressly  to  see 
you." 

They  stopped  in  a  row,  astonished,  examining  this  old 
wrinkled  visage  between  the  folds  of  her  cap,  this  strange 
dress  of  a  simplicity  unknown  to  them ;  and  their  grand- 
mother's astonishment  answered  to  theirs,  complicated  with 
a  heart-breaking  discomfiture  and  constraint  in  dealing  with 
these  little  gentlemen,  as  stifif  and  disdainful  as  any  of  the 
nobles  or  ministers  whom  her  son  had  brought  to  Saint- 
Romans.  On  the  bidding  of  their  tutor  "  to  salute  their  ven- 
erable grandmother,"  they  came  in  turn  to  give  her  one  of 
those  little  half-hearted  shakes  of  the  hand  of  which  they  had 
distributed  so  many  in  the  garrets  they  had  visited.  The 
fact  is  that  this  good  woman,  with  her  agricultural  appear- 
ance and  clean  but  very  simple  clothes,  reminded  them  of 
the  charity  visits  of  the  College  Bourdaloue.  They  felt  be- 
tween them  the  same  unknown  quality,  the  same  distance, 
which  no  remembrance,  no  word  of  their  parents  had  ever 
helped  to  bridge.  The  abbe  felt  this  constraint,  and  tried 
to   dispel   it — speaking  with   the  tone   of  voice   and  ges- 

350 


The  Sitting 


tures  customary  to  those  who  always  think  they  are  in 
the  pulpit. 

"  Well,  madame,  the  day  has  come,  the  great  day  when 
Jansoulet  will  confound  his  enemies — confundantur  hostes 
mei,  quia  injiiste  iniquitatem  fecerunt  in  me — because  they 
have  unjustly  persecuted  me." 

The  old  lady  bent  religiously  before  the  Latin  of  the 
Church,  but  her  face  exjDressed  a  vague  expression  of  un- 
easiness at  this  idea  of  enemies  and  of  persecutions. 

"  These  enemies  are  powerful  and  numerous,  my  noble 
lady,  but  let  us  not  be  alarmed  beyond  measure.  Let  us 
have  confidence  in  the  decrees  of  Heaven  and  in  the  justice 
of  our  cause.  God  is  in  the  midst  of  it,  it  shall  not  be  over- 
thrown— in  medio  ejus  non  comnioVehitur." 

A  gigantic  negro,  resplendent  with  gold  braid,  interrupt- 
ed hlffi  by  announcing  that  the  bicycles  were  ready  for  the 
daily  lesson  on  the  terrace  of  the  Tuileries.  Before  setting 
out,  the  children  again  shook  solemnly  their  grandmother's 
wrinkled  and  hardened  hand.  She  was  watching  them  go, 
stupefied  and  oppressed,  when  all  at  once,  by  an  adorable 
spontaneous  movement,  the  youngest  turned  back  when  he 
had  got  to  the  door  and,  pushing  the  great  negro  aside,  came 
to  throw  himself  head  foremost,  like  a  little  buffalo,  into 
Mme.  Jansoulet's  skirts,  squeezing  her  to  him,  while  hold- 
ing out  his  smooth  forehead,  covered  with  brown  curls,  with 
the  grace  of  a  child  offering  its  kiss  like  a  flower.  Perhaps 
this  one,  nearer  the  warmth  of  the  nest,  the  cradling  knees 
of  the  nurses  with  their  peasant  songs,  had  felt  the  maternal 
influence,  of  which  the  Levantine  had  deprived  him,  reach 
his  heart.  The  old  woman  trembled  all  over  with  the  sur- 
prise of  this  instinctive  embrace. 

"  Oh !  little  one,  little  one,"  said  she,  seizing  the  little 
silky,  curly  head  which  reminded  her  so  much  of  another, 
and  she  kissed  it  wildly.  Then  the  child  unloosed  himself, 
and  ran  off  without  saying  anything,  his  head  moist  with  hot 
tears. 

Left  alone  with  Cabassu,  the  mother,  comforted  by  this 
embrace,  asked  some  explanation  of  the  priest's  words.  Had 
her  son  many  enemies? 

351 


The  Nabob 

"  Oh !  "  said  Cabassu,  "  it  is  not  astonishing,  in  his  posi- 
tion." 

"  But  what  is  this  great  day — this  sitting  of  which  you  all 
speak  ?  " 

"  Well,  then,  it  is  to-day  that  we  shall  know  whether 
Bernard  will  be  deputy  or  no." 

"  What  ?  He  is  not  one  now,  then  ?  And  I  have  told 
them  everywhere  in  the  country.  I  illuminated  Saint-Ro- 
mans a  month  ago.    Then  they  have  made  me  tell  a  lie." 

The  masseur  had  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  explaining  to 
her  the  parliamentary  formalities  of  the  verification  of  elec- 
tions. She  only  listened  with  one  ear,  walking  up  and  down 
the  linen-room  feverishly. 

"  That's  where  my  Bernard  is  now,  then?" 

"  Yes,  madame." 

"  And  can  women  go  to  the  Chamber?  Then  why  is  his 
wife  not  there  ?  For  one  does  not  need  telling  that  it  is  an 
important  matter  for  him.  On  a  day  like  this  he  needs  to 
feel  all  those  whom  he  loves  at  his  side.  See,  my  lad,  you 
must  take  me  there,  to  this  sitting.     Is  it  far?" 

"  No,  quite  near.  Only,,  it  must  have  begun  already. 
And  then,"  added  he,  a  little  disconcerted,  "  it  is  the  hour 
when  madame  wants  me." 

"  Ah !  Do  you  teach  her  this  thing  you  are  professor  of  ? 
What  do  you  call  it  ?  " 

"  Massage.  We  have  learned  it  from  the  ancients.  Yes, 
there  she  is  ringing  for  me,  and  some  one  will  come  to  fetch 
me.    Shall  I  tell  her  you  are  here  ?  " 

"  No,  no ;  I  prefer  to  go  there  at  once." 

"  But  you  have  no  admission  ticket." 

"  Bah !  I  will  tell  them  I  am  Jansoulet's  mother,  come 
to  hear  him  judged."  Poor  mother,  she  spoke  truer  than  she 
knew. 

"  Wait,  Mme.  Frangoise.  I  will  give  you  some  one  to 
show  you  the  way,  at  least." 

"  Oh,  you  know,  I  have  never  been  able  to  put  up  with 
servants.  I  have  a  tongue.  There  are  people  in  the  streets. 
I  shall  find  my  way." 

He  made  a  last  attempt,  without  letting  her  see  all  his 

352 


The  Sitting 


thought.  "  Take  care ;  his  enemies  are  going  to  speak 
against  him  in  the  Chamber.  You  vviU  hear  things  to  hurt 
you." 

Oh,  the  beautiful  smile  of  belief  and  maternal  pride  with 
which  she  answered :  "  Don't  I  know  better  than  them  all 
what  my  child  is  worth  ?  Could  anything  make  me  mistaken 
in  him?  I  should  have  to  be  very  ungrateful,  then.  Get 
along  with  you  !  " 

And  shaking  her  head  with  its  flapping  cap  wings,  she 
set  off  fiercely  indignant. 

With  head  erect  and  upright  bearing  the  old  woman 
strode  along  under  the  great  arcades  which  they  had  told  her 
to  follow,  a  little  troubled  by  the  incessant  noise  of  the  car- 
riages, and  by  the  idleness  of  this  walk,  unaccompanied  by 
the  faithful  distafT  which  had  never  quitted  her  for  fifty 
years.  All  these  ideas  of  enmities  and  persecutions,  the  mys- 
terious words  of  the  priest,  the  guarded  talk  of  Cabassu, 
frightened  and  agitated  her.  She  found  in  them  the  meaning 
of  the  presentiments  which  had  so  overpowered  her  as  to 
snatch  her  from  her  habits,  her  duties,  the  care  of  the  house 
and  of  her  invalid.  Besides,  since  Fortune  had  thrown  on 
her  and  her  son  this  golden  mantle  with  its  heavy  folds, 
Mme.  Jansoulet  had  never  become  accustomed  to  it,  and  was 
always  waiting  for  the  sudden  disappearance  of  these  splen- 
dours. Who  knows  if  the  break-up  was  not  going  to  begin 
this  time  ?  And  suddenly,  through  these  sombre  thoughts, 
the  remembrance  of  the  scene  that  had  just  passed,  of  the 
little  one  rubbing  himself  on  her  woollen  gown,  brought 
on  her  wrinkled  lips  a  tender  smile,  and  she  murmured  in 
her  peasant  tongue : 

"  Oh,  for  the  little  one,  at  any  rate." 

She  crossed  a  magnificent  square,  immense,  dazzling, 
two  fountains  throwing  up  their  water  in  a  silvery  spray, 
then  a  great  stone  bridge,  and  at  the  end  was  a  square  build- 
ing with  statues  on  its  front,  a  railing  with  carriages  drawn 
up  before  it,  people  going  on,  numbers  of  policemen.  It 
was  there.  She  pushed  through  the  crowd  bravely  and  came 
up  to  the  high  glass  doors. 

353 


The  Nabob 

"  Your  card,  my  good  woman  ?  " 

The  "  good  woman  "  had  no  card,  but  she  sai9  quite 
simply  to  one  of  the  porters  in  red  who  were  keeping  the 
door: 

"  I  am  Bernard  Jansoulet's  mother,  I  have  come  for  the 
sitting  of  my  boy." 

It  Avas  indeed  the  sitting  of  her  boy ;  for  everywhere  in 
this  crowd  besieging  the  doors,  filling  the  passages,  the 
hall,  the  tribune,  the  whole  palace,  the  same  name  was  re- 
peated, accompanied  with  smiles  and  anecdotes.  A  great 
scandal  was  expected,  terrible  revelations  from  the  chair- 
man, which  would  no  doubt  lead  to  some  violence  from  the 
barbarian  brought  to  bay,  and  they  hurried  to  the  spot  as  to  a 
first  night  or  a  celebrated  trial.  The  old  mother  would  hard- 
ly have  been  heard  in  the  middle  of  this  crowd,  if  the  stream 
of  gold  left  by  the  Nabob  wherever  he  had  passed,  marking 
his  royal  progress,  had  not  opened  all  the  roads  to  her.  She 
went  behind  the  attendant  in  this  tangle  of  passages,  of 
folding-doors,  of  empty  resounding  halls,  filled  with  a  hum 
which  circulated  with  the  air  of  the  building,  as  if  the  walls, 
themselves  soaked  with  babble,  w^ere  joining  to  the  sound  of 
all  these  voices  the  echoes  of  the  past.  While  crossing  a  cor- 
ridor she  saw  a  little  dark  man  gesticulating  and  crying  to 
the  servants : 

"  You  will  tell  Moussiou  Jansoulet  that  it  is  I,  that  I  am 
the  Mayor  of  Sarlazaccio,  that  I  have  been  condemned  to 
five  months'  imprisonment  for  him.  In  God's  name,  surely 
that  is  worth  a  card  for  the  fitting." 

Five  months'  imprisonment  for  her  son !  Why  ?  Very 
much  disturbed,  she  arrived  at  last,  her  ears  singing,  at  the 
top  of  a  staircase,  where  different  inscriptions — "  Tribune  of 
the  Senate,  of  the  Diplomatic  Body,  of  the  Deputies  " — 
stood  above  little  doors  like  boxes  in  a  theatre.  She  entered, 
and  without  seeing  anything  at  first  except  four  or  five 
rows  of  seats  filled  with  people,  and  opposite,  very  far  off, 
separated  from  her  by  a  vast  clear  space,  other  galleries  simi- 
larly filled.  She  leaned  up  against  the  wall,  astonished  to  be 
there,  exhausted,  almost  ashamed.  A  current  of  hot  air 
which  came  to  her  face,  a  chatter  of  rising  voices,  drew  her 

354 


The  Sitting 


towards  the  slope  of  the  gallery,  towards  the  kind  of  gulf 
open  in  the  middle  where  her  son  must  be.  Oh !  how  she 
would  like  to  see  him.  So  squeezing  herself  in,  and  using 
her  elbows,  pointed  and  hard  as  her  spindle,  she  glided  and 
slipped  between  the  wall  and  the  seats,  taking  no  notice  of 
the  anger  she  aroused  or  the  contempt  of  the  well-dressed 
women  whose  lace  and  fresh  toilettes  she  crushed ;  for  the 
assembly  was  elegant  and  fashionable.  Mme.  Jansoulet  rec- 
ognised, by  his  stiff  shirt-front  and  aristocratic  nose,  the 
marquis  who  had  visited  them  at  Saint-Romans,  who  so 
well  suited  his  name,  but  he  did  not  look  at  her.  She  was 
stopped  farther  progress  by  the  back  of  a  man  sitting  down, 
an  enormous  back  wdiich  barred  everything  and  forbade 
her  go  farther.  Happily,  she  could  see  nearly  all  the 
tiall  from  here  by  leaning  forward  a  little ;-  and  these  semi- 
circular benches  filled  with  deputies,  the  green  hanging 
of  the  walls,  the  chair  at  the  end,  occupied  by  a  bald  man 
with  a  severe  air,  gave  her  the  idea,  under  the  studious  and 
gray  light  from  the  roof,  of  a  class  about  to  begin,  with  all 
the  chatter  and  movemxcnt  of  thoughtless  schoolboys. 

One  thing  struck  her — the  way  in  which  all  looks  turned 
to  one  side,  to  the  same  point  of  attraction ;  and  as  she  fol- 
lowed this  current  of  curiosity  which  carried  away  the  entire 
assembly,  hall  as  well  as  galleries,  she  saw  that  what  they 
were  all  looking  at — was  her  son. 

In  the  Jansoulet's  country  there  is  still,  in  some  old 
churches,  at  the  end  of  the  choir,  half-way  up  the  crypt,  a 
stone  cell  where  lepers  were  admitted  to  hear  mass,  show- 
ing their  dark  profiles  to  the  curious  and  fearful  crowd, 
like  wild  beasts  crouched  against  the  loopholes  in  the  wall. 
FranQoise  well  remembered  having  seen  in  the  village  where 
she  had  been  brought  up  the  leper,  the  bugbear  of  her  in- 
fancy, hearing  mass  from  his  stone  cage,  lost  in  the  shade  and 
in  isolation.  Now,  seeing  her  son  seated,  his  head  in  his 
hands,  alone,  up  there  away  from  the  others,  this  memory 
came  to  her  mind.  "  One  might  think  it  was  a  leper,"  mur- 
mured the  peasant.  And,  in  fact,  this  poor  Nabob  was  a 
leper,  his  millions  from  the  East  weighing  on  him  like  some 
terrible  and  mysterious  disease.    It  happened  that  the  bench 

355 


The  Nabob 

on  which  he  had  chosen  to  sit  had  several  recent  vacancies 
on  account  of  hoHdays  or  deaths;  so  that  while  the  other 
deputies  were  talking  to  each  other,  laughing,  making  signs, 
he  sat  silent,  alone,  the  object  of  attention  to  all  the  Cham- 
ber; an  attention  which  his  mother  felt  to  be  malevolent, 
ironic,  which  burned  into  her  heart.  How  was  she  to  let  him 
know  that  she  was  there,  near  him,  that  one  faithful  heart 
beat  not  far  from  his?  He  would  not  turn  to  the  gallery. 
One  would  have  said  that  he  felt  it  was  hostile,  that  he 
feared  to  look  there.  Suddenly,  at  the  sound  of  the  bell 
from  the  presidential  platform,  a  rustle  ran  through  the 
assembly,  every  head  leaned  forward  with  that  fixed  atten- 
tion which  makes  the  features  unmovable,  and  a  thin  man  in 
spectacles,  whose  sudden  rise  among  so  many  seated  fig- 
ures gave  him  the  authority  of  attitude  at  once,  said,  open- 
ing the  paper  he  held  in  his  hand : 

"  Gentlemen,  in  the  name  of  your  third  committee,  I  beg 
to  move  that  the  election  of  the  second  division  of  the  de- 
partment of  Corsica  be  annulled." 

In  the  deep  silence  following  this  phrase,  which  Mme. 
Jansoulet  did  not  understand,  the  giant  seated  before  her 
began  to  puff  vigorously,  and  all  at  once,  in  the  front  row  of 
the  gallery,  a  lovely  face  turned  round  to  address  him  a  rapid 
sign  of  intelligence  and  approval.  Forehead  pale,  lips  thin, 
eyebrows  too  black  for  the  white  framing  of  her  hat,  it  all 
produced  in  the  eyes  of  the  good  old  lady,  without  her  know- 
ing why,  the  effect  of  the  first  flash  of  lightning  in  a  storm, 
and  the  apprehension  of  the  thunderbolt  folloAving  the  light- 
ning. 

Le  Merquier  was  reading  his  report.  The  slow,  dull, 
monotonous  voice,  the  drawling,  weak  Lyonnese  accent, 
while  the  long  form  of  the  lawyer  balanced  itself  in  an  almost 
animal  movement  of  the  head  and  shoulders,  made  a  singu- 
lar contrast  to  the  ferocious  clearness  of  the  brief.  First,  a 
rapid  account  of  the  electoral  irregularities.  Never  had  uni- 
versal suffrage  been  treated  with  such  primitive  and  bar- 
barous contempt.  At  Sarlazaccio,  where  Jansoulet's  rival 
seemed  to  have  a  majority,  the  ballot-box  was  destroyed  the 
night  before  it  was  counted.    The  same  thing  almost  hap- 

356 


The  Sitting 


pened  at  Levia,  at  Saint-Andre,  at  Avabessa.  And  it  was  the 
mayors  themselves  who  committed  these  crimes,  who  carried 
the  urns  home  with  them,  broke  the  seals,  tore  up  the  voting 
papers,  under  cover  of  their  municipal  authority.  There 
had  been  no  respect  for  the  law.  Everywhere  fraud,  in- 
trigue, even  violence.  At  Calcatoggio  an  armed  man  sat 
during  the  election  at  the  window  of  a  tavern  in  front  of  the 
viairie,  holding  a  blunderbuss,  and  whenever  one  of  Sebas- 
tiani's  electors  (Sebastiani  was  Jansoulet's  opponent)  showed 
himself,  the  man  took  aim :  "  If  you  come  in,  I  will  blow  out 
your  brains."  And  when  one  saw  the  inspectors  of  police, 
justices,  inspectors  of  weights  and  measures,  not  afraid  to 
turn  into  canvassing  agents,  to  frighten  or  cajole  a  popula- 
tion too  submissive  before  all  these  little  tyrannical  local 
influences,  was  that  not  proof  of  a  terrible  state  of  things  ? 
Even  priests,  saintly  pastors,  led  astray  by  their  zeal  for  the 
poor-box  and  the  restoration  of  an  impoverished  building, 
had  preached  a  mission  in  favour  of  Jansoulet's  election. 
But  an  influence  still  more  powerful,  though  less  respectable, 
had  been  called  into  play  for  the  good  cause — the  influence 
of  the  banditti.  "  Yes,  banditti,  gentlemen ;  I  am  not 
joking."  And  then  came  a  sketch  in  outline  of  Corsican 
banditti  in  general,  and  of  the  Piedigriggio  family  in  par- 
ticular. 

The  Chamber  listened  attentively,  with  a  certain  uneasi- 
ness. For,  after  all,  it  was  an  official  candidate  whose  doings 
were  thus  described,  and  these  strange  doings  belonged  to 
that  privileged  land,  cradle  of  the  imperial  family,  so  closely 
attached  to  the  fortunes  of  the  dynasty,  that  an  attack  on 
Corsica  seemed  to  strike  at  the  sovereign.  But  when  peo- 
ple saw  the  new  minister,  successor  and  enemy  of  Mora, 
glad  of  the  blow  to  a  protege  of  his  predecessor,  smile  com- 
placently from  the  Government  bench  at  Le  Merquier's 
cruel  banter,  all  constraint  disappeared  at  once,  and  the 
ministerial  smile  repeated  on  three  hundred  mouths,  grew 
into  a  scarcely  restrained  laugh — the  laugh  of  crowds  under 
the  rod  which  bursts  out  at  the  least  approbation  of  the 
master.  In  the  galleries,  not  usually  treated  to  the  pictur- 
esaue,  but  amused  by  these  stories  of  brigands,  there  was 

357 


The  Nabob 

general  joy,  a  radiant  animation  on  all  these  faces,  pleased 
to  look  pretty  without  insulting  the  solemnity  of  the  spot. 
Little  bright  bonnets  shook  with  all  their  flowers  and  plumes, 
round  gold-encircled  arms  leaned  forward  the  better  to  hear. 
The  grave  Le  Merquier  had  imported  into  the  sitting  the 
distraction  of  a  show,  the  little  spice  of  humour  allowed  in 
a  charity  concert  to  bribe  the  uninitiated. 

Iraoassible  and  cold  in  the  midst  of  his  success,  he  con- 
tinned  to  read  in  his  gloomy  voice,  penetrating  like  the  rain 
of  Lyons : 

"  Now,  gentlemen,  one  asks  how  a  stranger,  a  Proven- 
9al  returned  from  the  East,  ignorant  of  the  interests  and 
needs  of  this  island  where  he  had  never  been  seen  before 
the  election,  a  true  type  of  what  the  Corsican  disdain- 
fully calls  a  '  continental ' — how  has  this  man  been  able  to 
excite  such  an  enthusiasm,  such  devotion  carried  to  crime,  to 
profanity.  His  wealth  will  answer  us,  his  fatal  gold  thrown 
in  the  face  of  the  electors,  thrust  by  force  into  their  pockets 
with  a  barefaced  cynicism,  of  which  we  have  a  thousand 
proofs."  Then  the  interminable  series  of  denunciations : 
"  I,  the  undersigned,  Croce  (Antoine),  declare  in  the  inter- 
ests of  truth,  that  the  Commissary  of  Police  Nardi,  calling 
on  us  one  evening,  said :  '  Listen,  Croce  (Antoine),  I  swear 
by  the  fire  of  this  lamp  that  if  you  vote  for  Jansoulet  you 
will  have  fifty  francs  to-morrow  morning.'  "  And  this  other : 
"  I,  the  undersigned,  Lavezzi  (Jacques-Alphonse),  declare 
that  I  refused  with  contempt  seventeen  francs  offered  me  by 
the  Mayor  of  Pozzonegro  to  vote  against  my  cousin  Se- 
bastiani."  It  is  probable  that  for  three  francs  more  Lavezzi 
(Jacques-Alphonse)  would  have  swallowed  his  contempt  in 
silence.  But  the  Chamber  did  not  look  into  things  so 
closely. 

Indignation  seized  on  this  incorruptible  Chamber.  It 
murmured,  it  fidgeted  on  its  padded  seats  of  red  velvet,  it 
raised  a  positive  clamour.  There  Avere  "  Oil's  "  of  amaze- 
ment, eyes  lifted  in  astonishment,  brusque  movements  on 
the  benches,  as  if  in  disgust  at  this  spectacle  of  human  degra- 
dation. And  remark  that  the  greater  part  of  these  deputies 
had  used  the  same  electoral  methods,  that  these  were  the 

358 


The   Sitting 


heroes  of  those  famous  orgies  when  whole  oxen  were  carried 
in  triumph,  ribanded  and  decorated  as  at  Gargantuan  feasts. 
Just  these  men  cried  louder  than  others,  turned  furiously 
towards  the  solitar}^  seat  w^here  the  poor  leper  listened,  still 
and  downcast.  Yet  in  the  midst  of  the  general  uproar,  one 
voice  was  raised  in  his  favour,  but  low,  unpractised,  less  a 
voice  than  a  sympathetic  murmur,  through  which  was  dis- 
tinguished vaguely :  "  Great  services  to  the  Corsican  popu- 
lation— Considerable  works — Territorial  Bank." 

He  who  mumbled  thus  was  a  little  man  in  white  gai- 
ters, an  albino  head,  and  thin  hair  in  scattered  locks.  But 
the  interruption  of  this  unfortunate  friend  only  furnished  Le 
Merquier  with  a  rapid  and  natural  transition.  A  hideous 
smile  parted  his  flabby  lips.  "  The  honourable  M.  Sarigue 
mentions  the  Territorial  Bank.  We  shall  be  able  to  answer 
him."  He  seemed  in  fact  to  be  very  familiar  with  the  Paga- 
netti  den.  In  a  few  neat  and  lively  phrases  he  threw-  the 
light  on  to  the  depths  of  the  gloomy  cave,  showed  all  the 
traps,  the  gulfs,  the  windings,  the  snares,  like  a  guide  waving 
his  torch  above  the  oubliettes  of  some  sinister  dungeon.  He 
spoke  of  the  fictitious  quarries,  of  the  railways  on  paper,  of 
the  chimeric  liners  disappearing  in  their  own  steam.  The 
frightful  desert  of  the  Taverna  was  not  forgotten,  nor  the  old 
Genoese  castle,  the  office  of  the  steamship  agency.  But 
w^hat  amused  the  Chamber  most  was  the  story  of  a  swin- 
dling ceremony  organized  by  the  governor  for  the  piercing 
of  a  tunnel  through  Monte  Rotondo,  a  gigantic  undertaking 
always  in  project,  put  off  from  year  to  year,  demanding  mil- 
lions of  money  and  thousands  of  w^orkmen,  and  which  was 
begun  in  great  pomp  a  week  before  the  election.  His  report 
gave  the  thing  a  comic  air — the  first  blow  of  the  pickaxe 
given  by  the  candidate  in  the  enormous  mountain  covered  by 
ancient  forests,  the  speech  of  the  Prefect,  the  benediction  of 
the  flags  with  the  cries  of  "  Long  live  Bernard  J^usoulet !  " 
and  the  two  hundred  workmen  beginning  the  task  at  once, 
working  day  and  night  for  a  week ;  then,  when  the  election 
was  over,  leaving  the  fragments  of  rock  heaped  round  the 
abandoned  excavation  for  a  laughing-stock — another  asylum 
for  the  terrible  banditti.    The  game  was  over.    After  having 

359 


The  Nabob 

extorted  the  shareholders'  money  for  so  long,  the  Territorial 
Bank  this  time  was  used  as  a  means  to  swindle  the  electors 
of  their  votes.  "  Furthermore,  gentlemen,  another  detail, 
with  which  perhaps  I  should  have  begun  and  spared  you  the 
recital  of  this  electoral  pasquinade.  I  learn  that  a  judicial 
inquiry  has  been  opened  to-day  into  the  affairs  of  the  Corsi- 
can  Bank,  and  that  a  serious  examination  of  its  books  will 
very  probably  reveal  one  of  those  financial  scandals — too 
frequent,  alas !  in  our  days — and  in  which,  for  the  honour  of 
the  Chamber,  we  would  wish  that  none  of  our  members  were 
concerned." 

With  this  sudden  revelation,  the  speaker  stopped  a 
moment,  like  an  actor  making  his  point ;  and  in  the  heavy 
silence  weighing  on  the  assembly,  the  noise  of  a  closing 
door  was  heard.  It  was  the  Governor  Paganetti  leaving 
the  tribune,  his  face  white,  the  eyes  wide  open,  his  mouth 
half  opened,  like  some  Pierrot  scenting  in  the  air  a  for- 
midable blow.  Monpavon,  motionless,  expanded  his  shirt- 
front.  The  big  man  puffed  violently  into  the  flowers  of  his 
wife's  little  white  hat. 

Jansoulet's  mother  looked  at  her  son. 

"  I  have  spoken  of  the  honour  of  the  Chamber,  gentle- 
men. On  that  point  I  have  more  to  say."  Now  Le  Mer- 
quier  was  reading  no  longer.  After  the  chairman  of  the 
committees,  the  orator  came  on  the  scene,  or  rather  the 
judge.  His  face  was  expressionless,  his  eyes  hidden  ;  nothing 
lived,  nothing  moved  in  all  his  body  save  the  right  arm — 
the  long  angular  arm  with  short  sleeves — which  rose  and  fell 
automatically,  like  a  sword  of  justice,  making  at  the  end  of 
each  sentence  the  cruel  and  inexorable  gesture  of  beheading. 
And  truly  it  was  an  execution  at  which  they  were  present. 
The  orator  would  leave  on  one  side  scandalous  legends,  the 
mystery  which  brooded  over  this  colossal  fortune  acquired 
in  distant  lands,  far  from  all  control.  But  there  were  in 
the  life  of  the  candidate  certain  points  difficult  to  clear 
up,  certain  details.  He  hesitated,  seemed  to  select  his 
words  ;  then,  before  the  impossibility  of  formulating  a  direct 
accusation :  "  Do  not  let  us  lower  the  debate,  gentlemen. 
You  have  understood  me.     You  know  to  what  infamous 

360 


The   Sitting 


stories  I  allude — to  what  calumnies,  I  wish  I  could  say; 
but  truth  forces  me  to  state  that  when  M.  Jansoulet 
called  before  your  committee,  was  asked  to  deny  the 
accusations  made  against  him,  his  explanations  were  so 
vague  that,  though  convinced  of  his  innocence,  a  scrupu- 
lous regard  for  your  honour  forced  us  to  reject  a  can- 
didature so  besmirched.  No,  this  man  must  not  sit  among 
you.  Besides,  what  would  he  do  there?  Living  so  long 
in  the  East,  he  has  unlearned  the  laws,  the  manners,  and  the 
usages  of  his  country.  He  believes  in  rough  and  ready  jus-* 
tice,  in  fights  in  the  open  street;  he  relies  on  the  abuseJ 
of  power,  and,  worse  still,  on  the  venality  and  crouching 
baseness  of  all  men.  He  is  the  merchant  who  thinks  that 
ever}'thing  can  be  bought  at  a  price — even  the  votes  of  the 
electors,  even  the  conscience  of  his  colleagues." 

One  should  have  seen  with  what  naive  admiration  these 
fat  deputies,  enervated  with  good  fortune,  listened  to  this 
ascetic,  this  man  of  another  age,  like  some  Saint- Jerome 
who  had  left  his  Thebaid  to  overwhelm  Avith  his  vigorous 
eloquence,  in  a  full  assembly  of  the  Roman  Empire,  the 
shameless  luxury  of  the  prevaricators  and  of  the  conciis- 
sionaires.  How  well  they  understood  now  this  grand  sur- 
name of  "  My  conscience  "  which  the  courts  had  given  him. 
In  the  galleries  the  enthusiasm  rose  higher  still.  Lovely 
heads  leaned  to  see  him,  to  drink  in  his  words.  Applause 
went  round,  bending  the  bouquets  here  and  there,  like  the 
wind  in  a  wheat-field.  A  woman's  voice  cried  with  a  little 
foreign  accent,  "  Bravo !     Bravo !  " 

And  the  mother? 

Standing  upright,  immovable,  concentrated  in  her  desire 
to  understand  something  of  this  legal  phraseology,  of  these 
mysterious  allusions,  she  was  there  like  deaf-mutes  who  only 
understand  what  is  said  before  them  by  the  movement  of  the 
lips  and  the  expression  of  the  faces.  But  it  was  enough  for 
her  to  watch  her  son  and  Le  Merquier  to  understand  what 
harm  one  was  doing  to  the  other,  what  perfidious  and  poi- 
-soned  meaning  fell  from  this  long  discourse  on  the  unfortu- 
nate man  whom  one  might  have  believed  asleep,  except  for 
the  trembling  of  his  strong  shoulders  and  the  clinching^  of 

361 


The  Nabob 

his  hands  in  his  hair,  while  hiding  his  face.  Oh,  if  she  could 
have  said  to  him :  "  Don't  be  afraid,  my  son.  If  they  all 
misconstrue  you,  your  mother  loves  you.  Let  us  come  away 
together.  What  need  have  we  of  them  ?  "  And  for  one 
moment  she  could  believe  that  what  she  was  saying  to  him 
thus  in  her  heart  he  had  understood  by  some  mysterious 
intuition.  He  had  just  raised  and  shaken  his  grizzled  head, 
where  the  childisli.  curve  of  his  lips  quivered  under  a  possi- 
bility of  tears.  But  instead  of  leaving  his  seat,  he  spoke 
from  it,  his  great  hands  pounded  the  wood  of  the  desk.  The 
other  had  finished,  now  it  was  his  time  to  answer : 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  he. 

He  stopped  at  once,  frightened  by  the  sound  of  his  voice, 
hoarse,  frightfully  low  and  vulgar,  which  he  heard  for  the 
first  time  in  public.  He  must  find  the  words  for  his  defence, 
tormented  as  he  was  by  the  twitchings  of  his  face,  the  intona- 
tions which  he  could  not  express.  And  if  the  anguish  of  the 
poor  man  was  touching,  the  old  mother  up  there,  leaning, 
gasping,  moving  her  lips  nerv^ously  as  if  to  help  him  to  find 
words,  reflected  the  picture  of  his  torture.  Though  he  could 
not  see  her,  intentionally  turned  away  from  her  gallery,  as  he 
evidently  was,  this  maternal  inspiration,  the  ardent  magnet- 
ism of  those  black  eyes,  ended  by  giving  him  life,  and  sud- 
denly his  words  and  gestures  flowed  freely : 

"  First  of  all,  gentlemen,  I  must  say  that  I  do  not  de- 
fend the  methods  of  my  election.  If  you  believe  that  elec- 
toral morals  have  n-^t  been  always  the  same  in  Corsica,  that 
all  the  irregularities  -  mmitted  are  due  to  the  corrirpting 
influence  of  my  gold  and  not  to  the  uncultivated  and  passion- 
ate temperament  of  its  people,  reject, me — it  will  be  justice 
and  I  will  not  murmur.  But  in  this  debate  other  matters 
have  been  dealt  Vvith,  accusations  have  been  made  which 
involve  my  personal  honour,  and  those,  and  those  alone, 
I  wisli  to  answer."  His  voice  was  growing  firmer,  always 
broken,  veiled,  but  with  some  soft  cadences.  He  spoke  rap- 
idly of  his  life,  his  first  steps,  his  departure  for  the  East. 
It  sounded  like  an  eighteenth  century  tale  of  the  Barbary 
corsairs  sailing  the  Latin  seas,  of  Beys  and  of  bold  Proven- 
qals,  as  sunburned  as  crickets,  who  used  to  end  by  marrying 

362 


The  Sitting 


some  sultana  and  "  taking  the  turban,"  in  the  old  expression 
of  the  Marseillais.  "  As  for  me,''  said  the  Nabob,  with  his 
good-humoured  smile,  "  I  had  no  need  of  taking  the  tur- 
ban to  grow  rich.  I  had  only  to  take  into  this  land  of  idle- 
ness the  activity  and  flexibility  of  a  southern  Frenchman ; 
and  in  a  few  years  I  m^ade  one  of  those  fortunes  which  can 
only  be  made  in  those  hot  countries,  where  everything  is 
gigantic,  prodigious,  disproportionate,  where  flowers  grow  in 
a  night,  and  one  tree  produces  a  forest.  The  excuse  of  such 
fortunes  is  the  manner  in  which  they  are  used ;  and  I  make 
bold  to  say  that  never  has  any  favourite  of  fortune  tried 
harder  to  justify  his  wealth.  I  have  not  been  successful." 
No !  he  had  not  succeeded.  From  all  the  gold  he  had  scat- 
tered he  had  only  gathered  contemipt  and  hatred.  Hatred! 
Who  could  boast  more  of  it  than  he  ?  like  a  great  ship  in  the 
dock  when  its  keel  touches  the  bottom.  He  was  too  rich, 
and  that  stood  for  every  vice,  and  every  crime  pointed  him 
out  for  anonymous  vengeances,  cruel  and  incessant  en- 
mities. 

"  Ah,  gentlemen,"  cried  the  poor  Nabob,  lifting  his 
clinched  hands,  "  I  have  known  poverty,  I  have  struggled 
face  to  face  with  it,  and  it  is  a  dreadful  struggle,  I  swear.  But 
to  struggle  against  wealth,  to  defend  one's  happiness,  hon- 
our— rest — to  have  no  shelter  but  piles  of  gold  which  fall  and 
crush  you,  is  something  more  hideous,  more  heart-breaking 
still.  Never,  in  the  darkest  days  of  my  distress,  have  I  had 
the  pains,  the  anguish,  the  sleepless  nights  with  which  for- 
tune has  loaded  me — this  horrible  fortune  which  I  hate  and 
which  stifles  me.  They  call  me  the  Nabob,  in  Paris.  It  is 
not  the  Nabob  they  should  say,  but  the  Pariah — a  social 
pariah  holding  out  wide  arms  to  a  society  which  will  have 
none  of  him." 

Written  down,  the  words  may  appear  cold ;  but  there, 
before  the  assemblv,  the  defence  of  this  man  was  stamped 
with  an  eloquent  and  grandiose  sincerity,  which  at  first,  com- 
ing from  this  rustic,  this  upstart,  without  culture  or  educa- 
tion, with  the  voice  of  a  boatman  of  the  Rhone  and  the 
bearing  of  a  hodman,  first  astonished  and  then  singularly 
moved  his  hearers  just  on  account  of  its  wild,  uncultivated 

363  Vol.  18— Q 


The  Nabob 

style,  foreign  to  every  notion  of  parliamentary  etiquette.  Al- 
ready marks  of  favour  had  agitated  members,  used  to  the 
flood  of  gray  and  monotonous  administrative  speech.  But 
at  this  cry  of  rage  and  despair  against  wealth,  uttered  by  the 
wretch  whom  it  was  enfolding,  rolling,  drowning  in  its 
floods  of  gold,  while  he  was  struggling  and  calling  for 
help  from  the  depths  of  his  Pactolus,  the  whole  Chamber 
rose  with  loud  applause,  and  outstretched  hands,  as  if  to  give 
the  unfortunate  Nabob  more  testimonies  of  esteem,  of  which 
he  was  so  desirous,  and  at  the  same  time  to  save  him  from 
shipwreck.  Jansoulet  felt  it ;  and  warmed  by  this  sympathy, 
he  went  on,  with  head  erect  and  confident  look: 

"  You  have  just  been  told,  gentlemen,  that  I  was  un- 
worthy of  sitting  among  you.  And  he  who  said  it  was  the 
last  from  whom  I  should  have  expected  it,  for  he  alone  knew 
the  sad  secret  of  my  life,  he  alone  could  speak  for  me,  justify 
me,  and  convince  you.  He  has  not  done  it.  Well,  I  will 
try,  whatever  it  may  cost  me.  Outrageously  calumniated 
before  my  country,  I  owe  to  myself  and  my  children  this 
public  justification,  and  I  will  make  it," 

With  a  brusque  movement  he  turned  towards  the  tri- 
bune where  he  knew  his  enemy  was  watching  him,  and  sud- 
denly stopped,  full  of  fear.  There,  in  front  of  him,  behind 
the  pale,  malignant  head  of  the  baroness,  his  mother,  his 
mother  whom  he  believed  to  be  two  hundred  leagues  away 
from  the  terrible  storm,  was  looking  at  him,  leaning  against 
the  wall,  bending  down  her  saintly  face,  flooded  with  tears, 
but  proud  and  beaming  nevertheless  with  her  Bernard's 
great  success.  For  it  was  really  a  success  of  sincere  human 
emotion,  which  a  few  more  words  would  change  into  a  tri- 
umph. Cries  of  "  Go  on,  go  on  !  "  came  from  all  sides  of  the 
Chamber  to  reassure  and  encourage  him.  But  Jansoulet 
did  not  speak.  He  had  only  to  say :  "  Calumny  has  wilfully 
confused  two  names.  I  am  called  Bernard  Jansoulet,  the 
other  Jansoulet  Louis."    Not  a  word  more  was  needed. 

But  in  the  presence  of  his  mother,  still  ignorant  of  his 
brother's  dishonour,  he  could  not  say  it.  Respect — family 
ties  forbade  it.  He  could  hear  his  father's  voice :  "  I  die 
of  shame,  my  child."    Would  not  she  die  of  shame  too,  if  he 

364 


The  Sitting 

spoke  ?  He  turned  from  the  maternal  smile  with  a  sublime 
look  of  renunciation,  then  in  a  low  voice,  utterly  discour- 
aged, he  said  : 

"  Excuse  me,  gentlemen ;  this  explanation  is  beyond  my 
power.  Order  an  investigation  of  my  whole  life,  open  as 
it  is  to  all,  alas !  since  any  one  can  interpret  all  my  actions. 
I  swear  to  you  that  you  will  find  nothing  there  which  unfits 
me  to  sit  among  the  representatives  of  my  country." 

In  face  of  this  defeat,  which  seemed  to  everybody  the 
sudden  crumbling  of  an  edifice  of  efifrontery,  the  astonish- 
ment and  disillusionment  were  immense.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment of  excitement  on  the  benches,  the  tumult  of  a  vote 
taken  on  the  spot,  which  the  Nabob  saw  vaguely  through 
the  glass  doors,  as  the  condemned  man  looks  down  from  the 
scafifold  on  the  howling  crowd.  Then,  after  that  terrible 
pause  which  precedes  a  supreme  moment,  the  president 
made,  amid  deep  silence,  the  simple  pronouncement : 

"  The  election  of  M.  Bernard  Jansoulet  is  annulled." 

Never  had  a  man's  life  been  cut  off  with  less  solemnity 
or  disturbance. 

Up  there  in  her  gallery,  Jansoulet's  mother  understood 
nothing,  except  that  the  seats  were  emptying  near  her,  that 
people  were  rising  and  going  away.  Soon  there  was  no 
one  else  there  save  the  fat  man  and  the  lady  in  the  white 
hat,  who  leaned  over  the  barrier,  watching  Bernard  with 
curiosity,  who  seemed  also  to  be  going  away,  for  he  was 
putting  up  great  bundles  of  papers  in  his  portfolio  quite 
calmly.  When  they  were  in  order,  he  rose  and  left  his 
place.  Ah !  the  life  of  public  men  had  sometimes  cruel  situ- 
ations. Gravely,  slowly,  under  the  gaze  of  the  whole  assem- 
bly, he  must  descend  those  steps  which  he  had  mounted  at 
the  cost  of  so  much  trouble  and  money,  to  whose  feet  an 
inexorable  fatality  was  precipitating  him. 

The  Hemerlingues  were  waiting  for  this,  following  to 
its  last  stage  this  humiliating  exit,,  which  crushes  the  un- 
seated member  with  some  of  the  shame  and  fear  of  a  dis- 
missal. Then,  when  the  Nabob  had  disappeared,  they  looked 
at  each  other  with  a  silent  laugh,  and  left  the  gallery  before 
the  old  woman  had  dared  to  ask  them  anything,  warned  by; 

365 


The  Nabob 

her  instinct  of  their  secret  hostiHty.  Left  alone,  she  gave 
all  her  attention  to  a  new  speech,  persuaded  that  her  son's 
affairs  were  still  in  question.  They  spoke  of  an  election, 
of  a  scrutiny,  and  the  poor  mother  leaning  forward  in  her  red 
hood,  wrinkling  her  great  eyebrows,  would  have  religiously 
listened  to  the  whole  of  the  report  of  the  Sarigue  election,  if 
the  attendant  who  had  introduced  her  had  not  come  to  say 
that  it  was  finished  and  she  had  better  go  away.  She  seemed 
very  much  surprised. 

"Indeed!  Is  it  over?"  said  she,  rising  almost  regret- 
fully. 

And  quietly,  timidly : 

"  Has  he — has  he  won  ?  " 

It  was  innocent,  so  touching  that  the  attendant  did  not 
even  dream  of  smiling. 

"  Unfortunately,  no,  madame.  M.  Jansoulet  has  not 
won.  But  why  did  he  stop  in  that  way  ?  If  it  is  true  that  he 
never  came  to  Paris,  and  that  another  Jansoulet  did  every- 
thing they  accuse  him  of,  why  did  he  not  say  so  ?  " 

The  old  mother,  turning  pale,  leaned  on  the  balustrade  of 
the  staircase.    She  had  understood. 

Bernard's  brusque  interruption  on  seeing  her,  the 
sacrifice  he  had  made  to  her  so  simply — that  noble  glance 
as  of  a  dying  animal,  came  to  her  mind,  and  the  shame 
of  the  elder,  the  favourite  child,  mingled  itself  with  Ber- 
nard's disaster — a  double-edged  maternal  sorrow,  which  tore 
her  whichever  way  she  turned.  Yes,  yes,  it  w-as  on  her  ac- 
count he  would  not  speak.  But  she  would  not  accept  such 
a  sacrifice.  He  must  come  back  at  once  and  explain  him- 
self before  the  deputies. 

"  My  son,  where  is  m}'-  son  ?  " 

"  Below,  madame,  in  his  carriage.  It  was  he  who  sent 
me  to  look  for  you." 

She  ran  before  the  att  ndant,  walking  quickly,  talking 
aloud,  pushing  aside  out  of  her  way  the  little  black  and 
bearded  men  who  were  gesticulating  in  the  passages.  After 
the  waiting-hall  she  crossed  a  great  round  antechamber 
where  servants  in  respectful  rows  made  a  living  wainscotting 
to  the  high,  blank  wall.    From  there  she  could  see  through 

366 


The   Sitting 


the  glass  doors,  the  outside  railing,  the  crowd  in  waiting, 
and  among  the  other  vehicles,  the  Nabob's  carriage  waiting. 
As  she  passed,  the  peasant  recognised  in  one  of  the  groups 
her  enormous  neighbour  of  the  gallery,  with  the  pale  man  in 
spectacles  who  had  attacked  her  son,  who  was  receiving  all 
sorts  of  felicitations  for  his  discourse.  At  the  name  of  Jan- 
soulet,  pronounced  among  mocking  and  satisfied  sneers,  she 
stopped. 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  a  handsome  man  with  a  bad  feminine 
face,  "  he  has  not  proved  where  our  accusations  were  false." 
The  old  woman,  hearing  that,  wrenched  herself  through 
the  crowd,  and  facing  Moessard  said : 

"  What  he  did  not  say  I  will.  I  am  his  mother,  and  it 
is  my  duty  to  speak." 

She  stopped  to  seize  Le  Merquier  by  the  sleeve,  who 
was  escaping: 

"  Wicked  man,  you  must  listen,  first  of  all.  What  have 
you  got  against  my  child?  Don't  you  know  who  he  is? 
Wait  a  little  till  I  tell  you." 

And  turning  to  the  journalist : 
"  I  had  two  sons,  sir." 

Moessard  was  no  longer  there.  She  returned  to  Le  Mer- 
quier :  "  Two  sons,  sir."     Le  Merquier  had  disappeared. 

"  Oh,  listen  to  me,  some  one,  I  beg,"  said  the  poor 
mother,  throwing  her  hands  and  her  voice  round  her  to 
assemble  and  retain  her  hearers ;  but  all  fled,  melted  away, 
disappeared — deputies,  reporters,  unknown  and  mocking 
faces  to  whom  she  wished  at  any  cost  to  tell  her  story,  care- 
less of  the  indifference  where  her  sorrows  and  her  joys  fell, 
her  pride  and  maternal  tenderness  expressed  in  a  tornado  of 
feeling.  And  while  she  was  thus  exciting  herself  and  strug- 
gling— distracted,  her  bonnet  awry — at  once  grotesque  and 
sublime,  as  are  all  the  children  of  nature  when  brought 
into  civilization,  taking  to  witness  of  the  honesty  of  her 
son  and  the  injustice  of  men,  even  the  liveried  servants, 
whose  disdainful  impassibility  was  more  cruel  than  all,  Jan- 
soulet  appeared  suddenly  beside  her. 

"  Take  my  arm,  mother.    You  must  not  stop  there." 
He  said  it  in  a  tone  so  firm  and  calm  that  all  the  laughter 

367 


The  Nabob 

ceased,  and  the  old  woman,  suddenly  quieted,  sustained  by 
this  solid  hold,  still  trembling  a  little  with  anger,  left  the 
palace  between  two  respectful  rows.  A  dignified  and  rustic 
couple,  the  millions  of  the  son  gilding  the  countrified  air  of 
the  mother,  like  the  rags  of  a  saint  enshrined  in  a  golden 
chasse — they  disappeared  in  the  bright  sunlight  outside,  in 
the  splendour  of  their  glittering  carriage — a  ferocious  irony 
in  their  deep  distress,  a  striking  symbol  of  the  terrible  misery 
of  the  rich. 

They  sat  well  back,  for  both  feared  to  be  seen,  and 
hardly  spoke  at  first.  But  when  the  vehicle  was  well  on  its 
way,  and  he  had  behind  him  the  sad  Calvary  where  his 
honour  hung  gibbeted,  Jansoulet,  utterly  overcome,  laid  his 
head  on  his  mother's  shoulder,  hid  it  in  the  old  green  shawl, 
and  there,  with  the  burning  tears  flowing,  all  his  great  body 
shaken  by  sobs,  he  returned  to  the  cry  of  his  childhood: 
"  Mother." 


368 


XXII 

DRAMAS   OF   PARIS 

Que  I'heure  est  done  breve, 
Qu'on  passe  en  aimant  ! 
C'est  moins  qu'un  moment, 
Un  peu  plus  qu'un  reve. 

In  the  semi-obscurity  of  a  great  drawing-room  filled 
with  flowers,  the  seats  of  the  furniture  covered  with  holland, 
the  chandeliers  draped  with  muslin,  the  windows  open,  and 
the  Venetians  lowered,  Mme.  Jenkins  is  seated  at  the  piano 
reading  the  new  song  of  the  fashionable  musician ;  some 
melodic  phrases  accompanying  exquisite  verse,  a  melancholy 
Lied,  unequally  divided,  which  seems  written  for  the  tender 
gravities  of  her  voice  and  the  disturbed  state  of  her  soul. 

Le  temps  nous  enl&ve 
Notre  enchantement 

sighs  the  poor  woman,  moved  by  the  sound  of  her  own 
voice,  and  while  the  notes  float  away  in  the  court-yard  of  the 
house,  where  the  fountain  falls  drop  by  drop  among  a  bed 
of  rhododendrons,  the  singer  breaks  ofif,  her  hands  holding 
the  chord,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  music,  but  her  look  far  away. 
The  doctor  is  absent.  The  care  of  his  health  and  business 
has  exiled  him  from  Paris  for  some  days,  and  the  thoughts  of 
the  beautiful  Mme.  Jenkins  have  taken  that  grave  turn,  as 
often  happens  in  solitude,  that  analytical  tendency  which 
sometimes  makes  even  momentary  separations  fatal  in  the 
most  united  households.  United  they  had  not  been  for  some 
time.  They  only  saw  each  other  at  meal-times,  before  the 
servants,  hardly  speaking  unless  he,  the  man  of  unctuous 
manners,  allowed  himself  to  make  some  disobliging  or  brutal 
remark  on  her  son,  or  on  her  age,  which  she  began  to  show, 

369 


The  Nabob 

or  on  some  dress  which  did  not  become  her.  Always  gentle 
and  serene,  she  stifled  her  tears,  accepted  everything,  feigned 
not  to  understand ;  not  that  she  loved  him  still  after  so  much 
cruelty  and  contempt,  but  it  was  the  story,  as  their  coach- 
man Joe  told  it,  "  of  an  old  dinger  who  was  determined  to 
make  him  marry  her."  Up  to  then  a  terrible  obstacle — the 
life  of  the  legitimate  wife — had  prolonged  a  dishonourable 
situation.  Now  that  the  obstacle  no  longer  existed  she 
wished  to  put  an  end  to  the  situation,  because  of  Andre,  who 
from  one  day  to  another  might  be  forced  to  despise  his 
mother,  because  of  the  world  which  they  had  deceived  for 
ten  years — a  world  she  never  entered  but  with  beating  heart, 
for  fear  of  the  treatment  she  would  receive  after  a  discovery. 
To  her  allusions,  to  her  prayers,  Jenkins  had  answered  at 
first  by  phrases,  grand  gestures:  "  Could  you  distrust  me? 
Is  not  our  engagement  sacred  ?  " 

He  pointed  out  also  the  difficulty  of  keeping  an  act  of 
this  importance  secret.  Then  he  shut  himself  up  in  a  malig- 
nant silence,  full  of  cold  anger  and  violent  determinations. 
The  death  of  the  duke,  the  fall  of  an  absurd  vanity,  had 
struck  a  final  blow  at  the  household ;  for  disaster,  which 
often  brings  hearts  ready  to  understand  one  another  nearer, 
finishes  and  completes  disunions.  And  it  was  indeed  a  dis- 
aster. The  popularity  of  the  Jenkins  pearls  suddenly 
stopped,  the  situation  of  the  foreign  doctor  and  charlatan, 
ably  defined  by  Bouchereau  in  the  Journal  of  the  Academy, 
and  people  of  fashion  looked  at  each  other  in  fright,  paler 
from  terror  than  from  the  arsenic  they  had  imbibed.  Al- 
ready the  Irishman  had  felt  the  efifect  of  those  counter  blasts 
which  make  Parisian  infatuations  so  dangerous. 

It  was  for  that  reason,  no  doubt,  that  Jenkins  had  judged 
it  wise  to  disappear  for  some  time,  leaving  madame  to  con- 
tinue to  frequent  the  houses  still  open  to  them,  to  gauge  and 
hold  public  opinion  in  respect.  It  was  a  hard  task  for  the 
poor  woman,  who  found  everywhere  the  cool  and  distant 
welcome  which  she  had  received  at  the  Hemerlingues.  But 
she  did  not  complain ;  thus  earning  her  marriage,  she  was 
putting  between  them  as  a  last  resource  the  sad  tie  of  pity 
and  common  trials.     And  as  she  knew  that  she  was  wel- 

370 


Dramas  of  Paris 

corned  in  the  world  on  account  of  her  talent,  of  the  artistic 
distraction  she  lent  to  their  private  parties,  she  was  always 
ready  to  lay  on  the  piano  her  fan  and  long  gloves,  to  play 
some  fragment  of  her  vast  repertory.  She  worked  con- 
stantly, passing  her  afternoons  in  turning  over  new  music, 
choosing  by  preference  sad  and  complicated  harmonies,  the 
modem  music  which  no  longer  contents  itself  with  being 
an  art,  but  becomes  a  science,  and  answers  better  to  our 
nerves,  to  our  restlessness,  than  to  sentiment. 

Daylight  flooded  the  room  as  a  maid  brought  a  card  to 
her  mistress :  "  Heurteux,  business  agent." 

The  gentleman  was  there,  he  insisted  on  seeing  ma- 
dame. 

"  You  have  told  him  the  doctor  is  travelling?  " 

He  had  been  told,  but  it  was  to  madame  he  wished  to 
speak. 

"To  me?" 

Disturbed,  she  examined  this  rough,  crumpled  card, 
this  unknown  name  :  "  Heurteux."     What  could  it  be  ? 

"  Well,  show  him  in." 

Heurteux,  business  agent,  coming  from  broad  daylight 
into  the  semi-obscurity  of  the  room,  was  blinking  with  an 
uncertain  air,  trying  to  see.  She,  on  the  other  hand,  saw 
ver}'  distinctly  a  stiff  figure,  with  iron-gray  whiskers  and 
protruding  jaw,  one  of  those  hangers-on  of  the  law  whom 
one  meets  round  the  law  courts,  born  fifty  years  old,  with 
a  bitter  mouth,  an  envious  air,  and  a  morocco  portfolio 
under  the  arm.  He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  chair 
which  she  pointed  out  to  him,  turned  his  head  to  make  sure 
that  the  servant  had  gone  out,  then  opened  his  portfolio 
methodically  to  search  for  a  paper.  Seeing  that  he  did  not 
speak,  she  began  in  a  tone  of  impatience : 

"  I  ought  to  warn  you,  sir,  that  my  husband  is  absent, 
and  that  I  am  not  acquainted  with  his  business." 

Without  any  astonishment,  his  hand  in  his  papers,  the 
man  answered :  "  I  know  that  M.  Jenkins  is  absent,  ma- 
dame " — he  emphasized  more  particularly  the  two  words 
"  M.  Jenkins  " — "  especially  as  I  come  on  his  behalf." 

She  looked  at  him  frightened.     "  On  his  behalf?  " 

371 


The  Nabob 

"  Alas !  yes,  madame.  The  doctor's  situation,  as  you 
are  no  doubt  aware,  is  one,  for  the  moment,  of  very  great 
embarrassment.  Unfortunate  deahngs  on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change, the  failure  of  a  great  financial  enterprise  in  which 
his  money  is  invested,  the  CEuvre  de  Bethleem  which  weighs 
heavily  on  him,  all  these  reverses  coming  at  once  have 
forced  him  to  a  grave  resolution.  He  is  selling  his  mansion, 
his  horses,  everything  that  he  possesses,  and  has  given  me 
a  power  of  attorney  for  that  purpose." 

He  had  at  last  found  what  he  was  looking  for — one  of 
those  stamped  folded  papers,  interlined  and  riddled  with 
references,  where  the  impassible  law  makes  itself  respon- 
sible for  so  many  lies.  Mme.  Jenkins  was  going  to  say : 
"  But  I  was  here.  I  would  have  carried  out  all  his  wishes, 
all  his  orders — "  when  she  suddenly  understood  by  the  cool- 
ness of  her  visitor,  his  easy,  almost  insolent  attitude,  that 
she  was  included  in  this  clearing  up,  in  the  getting  rid  of 
the  costly  mansion  and  useless  riches,  and  that  her  departure 
would  be  the  signal  for  the  sale. 

She  rose  suddenly.  The  man,  still  seated,  went  on : 
"  What  I  have  still  to  say,  madame  " — oh,  she  knew  it,  she 
could  have  dictated  to  him  what  he  had  still  to  say — "  is 
so  painful,  so  delicate.  M.  Jenkins  is  leaving  Paris  for 
a  long  time,  and  in  the  fear  of  exposing  you  to  the  hazards 
and  adventures  of  the  new  life  he  is  undertaking,  of  taking 
you  away  from  a  son  you  cherish,  and  in  whose  interest  per- 
haps you  had  better " 

She  heard  no  more,  saw  no  more,  and  w^hile  he  was 
spinning  out  his  gossamer  phrases,  given  over  to  despair, 
she  heard  the  song  over  and  over  in  her  mind,  as  the  last 
image  seen  pursues  a  drowning  man : 

Le  temps  nous  enleve 
Notre  enchantement. 

All  at  once  her  pride  returned.  "  Let  us  put  a  stop  to 
this,  sir.  All  your  turns  and  phrases  are  only  an  additional 
insult.  The  fact  is  that  I  am  driven  out — turned  into  the 
street  like  a  servant." 

"  Oh,  madame,  madame !    The  situation  is  cruel  enough, 


Dramas  of  Paris 

don't  let  us  make  it  worse  by  hard  words.  In  the  evolution 
of  his  modus  vivcndi  M,  Jenkins  has  to  separate  from  you, 
but  he  does  so  with  the  greatest  pain  to  himself;  and  the 
proposals  which  I  am  charged  to  make  are  a  proof  of  his 
sentiments  for  you.  First,  as  to  furniture  and  clothes,  I  am 
authorized  to  let  you  take " 

"  That  will  do,"  said  she.  She  flew  to  the  bell.  "  I  am 
going  out.  Quick — my  hat,  my  mantle,  anything,  never 
mind  what.     I  am  in  a  hurry." 

And  while  they  went  to  fetch  her  what  she  wanted  she 
said: 

"  Everything  here  belongs  to  M.  Jenkins.  Let  him  dis- 
pose of  it  as  he  likes.  I  want  nothing  from  him.  Don't 
insist;  it  is  useless." 

The  man  did  not  insist.  His  mission  fulfilled,  the  rest 
mattered  little  to  him. 

Steadily,  coldly,  she  arranged  her  hat  carefully  before 
the  glass,  the  maid  fastening  her  veil,  and  arranging  on  her 
shoulders  the  folds  of  her  mantle,  then  she  looked  round 
her  and  considered  for  a  moment  whether  she  was  forget- 
ting anything  precious  to  her.  No,  nothing — her  son's  let- 
ters were  in  her  pocket,  she  never  allowed  them  to  be  away 
from  her. 

"  Madame  does  not  wish  for  the  carriage?" 

"  No."    And  she  left  the  house. 

It  was  about  five  o'clock.  At  that  moment  Bernard 
Jansoulet  was  crossing  the  doorway  of  the  legislative  cham- 
ber, his  mother  on  his  arm ;  but  poignant  as  was  the  drama 
enacted  there,  this  one  surpassed  it — more  sudden,  unfore- 
seen, and  without  any  stage  effects.  A  drama  between  four 
walls,  improvised  in  Paris  day  by  day.  Perhaps  it  is  this 
which  gives  that  vibration  to  the  air  of  the  city,  that  tremor 
which  forces  the  nerves  into  activity.  The  weather  was  mag- 
nificent. The  streets  of  the  wealthy  quarter,  large  and 
straight  as  avenues,  shone  in  the  declining  light,  embellished 
with  open  windows,  flowery  balconies,  and  patches  of  green 
seen  on  the  boulevards,  light  and  soft  among  the  narrow, 
hard  prospects  of  stone.  Mme.  Jenkins  hurried  in  this  direc- 
tion, walking  aimlessly,  in  a  dull  stupor.    What  a  horrible 

373 


The  Nabob 

crash!  Five  minutes  ago  rich,  surrounded  by  all  the  re- 
spect and  comfort  of  easy  circumstances.  Now — nothing. 
Not  even  a  roof  to  sleep  under,  not  even  a  name.  The 
street ! 

Where  was  she  to  go?    What  would  become  of  her? 

At  first  she  had  thought  of  her  son.  But,  to  acknowl- 
f-lge  her  fault,  to  blush  before  her  own  child,  to  weep  while 
taking  from  him  the  right  to  console  her,  was  more  than  she 
could  do.  No,  there  was  nothing  for  her  but  "death.  To 
die  as  soon  as  possible,  to  escape  shame  by  a  complete  dis- 
appearance, to  unravel  in  this  way  an  inextricable  situation. 
But  where  to  die  ?  How  ?  There  are  so  many  ways  of  de- 
parture !  And  she  called  them  all  up  mentally  while  she 
walked.  Life  flowed  around  her,  its  luxury  at  this  time  of 
the  year  in  full  flower,  round  the  Madeleine  and  its  market, 
in  a  space  marked  ofif  by  the  perfume  of  carnations  and 
roses.  On  the  wide  footpath  were  well-dressed  women 
whose  skirts  mingled  their  rustle  with  the  trembling  of  the 
young  leaves ;  there  was  some  of  the  pleasure  here  of  a  meet- 
ing in  a  drawing-room,  an  air  of  acquaintance  among  the 
passers-by,  of  smiles  and  discreet  greetings  in  passing.  And 
all  at  once  Mme.  Jenkins,  anxious  lest  her  features  might 
betray  her,  fearing  what  might  be  thought  if  any  one  saw 
her  rushing  on  so  blindly,  slackened  her  pace  to  the  aimless 
gait  of  an  afternoon  walk,  stopping  here  and  there.  The 
light  materials  of  the  dresses  spoke  of  summer,  of  the  coun- 
try ;  a  thin  skirt  for  the  sandy  paths  of  the  parks,  gauze- 
trimmed  hats  for  the  seaside,  fans,  sunshades.  Her  fixed 
eyes  fastened  on  these  trifles  without  seeing  them ;  but  in 
a  vague  and  pale  reflection  in  the  clear  windows  she  saw 
her  image,  lying  motionless  on  the  bed  of  some  hotel,  the 
leaden  sleep  of  a  poison  in  her  head ;  or,  down  there,  be- 
yond the  walls,  among  the  slime  of  some  sunken  boat. 
Which  of  the  two  was  better? 

She  hesitated,  considered,  compared ;  then,  her  decision 
made,  started  off  with  the  resolved  air  of  a  woman  tearing 
herself  regretfully  from  the  temptations  of  the  window.  As 
she  moved  away,  the  Marquis  de  Monpavon,  proud  and  well- 
dressed,  a  flower  in  his  coat,  saluted  her  at  a  distance  with 

374 


Dramas  of  Paris 

that  sweep  of  the  hat  so  dear  to  women's  vanity,  the  well- 
bred  bow,  with  the  hat  lifted  high  above  the  erect  head. 
She  answered  him  with  her  pretty  Parisian's  greeting,  ex- 
pressed in  an  imperceptible  inclination  of  the  body  and  a 
smile ;  and  seeing  this  exchange  of  politeness  in  the  midst 
of  the  spring  gaiety,  one  would  never  think  that  the  same 
sinister  idea  was  guiding  the  two,  meeting  by  chance  on  the 
road  they  were  traversing  in  opposite  directions,  but  to  the 
same  end. 

The  prediction  of  Mora's  valet  had  come  true  for  the 
marquis:  "We  may  die  or  lose  power;  then  there  will  be 
a  reckoning,  and  it  will  be  terrible."  It  was  terrible.  The 
former  receiver-general  had  obtained  with  difficulty  a  delay 
of  a  fortnight  to  make  up  his  deficiencies,  taking  the  last 
chance  that  Jansoulet,  with  his  election  confirmed,  and  with 
full  control  over  his  millions  again,  would  come  to  the  res- 
cue once  more.  The  decision  of  the  Assem.bly  had  just  taken 
from  him  this  last  hope.  As  soon  as  he  knew  it,  he  returned 
to  the  club  calmly,  and  went  up  to  his  room,  where  Fran- 
cis was  waiting  impatiently  for  him  with  an  important  paper 
just  arrived.  It  was  a  notification  to  the  Sieur  Louis- 
Marie-Agenor  de  ISIonpavon  to  appear  the  next  day  in  the 
office  of  the  Juge  d'Instruction.  Was  it  addressed  to  the 
censor  of  the  Territorial  Bank  or  to  the  former  receiver-gen- 
eral? In  any  case,  the  bold  formula  of  a  judicial  assigna- 
tion in  the  first  instance,  instead  of  a  private  invitation, 
spoke  sufficiently  of  the  gravity  of  the  situation  and  the  firm 
resolution  of  Justice. 

In  view  of  such  an  extremity,  foreseen  and  expected  for 
long,  he  had  made  his  plans.  A  Monpavon  in  the  criminal 
.':ourts ! — a  Monpavon,  librarian  in  a  convict  prison  !  Never ! 
He  put  all  his  affairs  in  order,  tore  up  his  papers,  emptied 
his  pockets  carefully,  and  took  something  from  his  toilet- 
t?.ble,  so  calmly  and  naturally,  that  when  he  said  to  Francis, 
as  he  was  going  out,  "  Am  going  to  the  baths — That  dirty 
Chamber — Filthy  dust  " — the  servant  took  him  at  his  word. 
And  the  marquis  was  not  lying.  His  exciting  post  up  there 
in  the  dust  of  the  tribune  had  tired  him  as  much  as  two 
nights  in  the  train ;  and  his  decision  to  die  associating  itself 

375 


The  Nabob 

with  his  desire  to  take  a  bath,  the  old  Sybarite  thought  of 
going  to  sleep  in  the  bath,  like  what's  his  name,  and  other 
famous  personages  of  antiquity.  And  in  justice  it  must  be 
said  that  not  one  of  these  Stoics  went  to  his  death  more 
quietly  than  he. 

With  a  white  camellia  in  his  buttonhole,  above  his  rosette 
of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  he  was  going  up  the  Boulevard 
des  Capucines  with  a  light  step,  when  the  sight  of  Mme. 
Jenkins  troubled  his  serenity  for  a  moment.  She  had  a 
youthful  air,  a  light  in  her  eyes,  something  so  piquant  that  he 
stopped  to  look  at  her.  Tall  and  beautiful,  with  her  long 
dress  of  black  gauze,  her  shoulders  wrapped  in  a  lace  man- 
tle, her  hat  trimmed  with  a  garland  of  autumn  leaves,  she 
disappeared  in  the  midst  of  other  elegant  women  in  the 
balmy  atmosphere  ;  and  the  thought  that  his  eyes  were  going 
to  close  forever  on  this  delightful  sight,  whose  pleasures  he 
knew  so  well,  saddened  Monpavon  a  little,  and  took  the 
spring  from  his  step.  But  a  few  paces  farther  on,  a  meeting 
of  another  kind  gave  him  back  all  his  courage. 

Some  one,  threadbare,  shamefaced,  dazzled  by  the  light, 
was  coming  down  the  Boulevard.  It  was  old  Marestang, 
former  senator,  former  minister,  so  deeply  compromised  in 
the  affairs  of  the  "  Malta  Biscuits,"  that,  in  spite  of  his  age, 
his  services,  and  the  great  scandal  of  such  a  proceeding,  he 
had  been  condemned  to  two  years  of  prison,  struck  off  the 
roll  of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  of  which  he  had  been  one  of 
the  dignitaries.  The  afifair  was  long  ago ;  the  poor  wretch 
had  just  been  let  out  of  prison  before  his  sentence  had  ex- 
pired, lost,  ruined,  not  having  even  the  means  to  gild  his 
trouble,  for  he  had  had  to  pay  what  he  owed.  Standing  on 
the  curb,  he  was  waiting  with  bent  head  till  the  crowds  of 
carriages  should  allow  him  to  pass,  embarrassed  by  this 
stoppage  at  the  fullest  spot  of  the  boulevards  between  the 
passers-by  and  the  sea  of  open  carriages  filled  with  familiar 
figures.  Monpavon  walking  near  him,  caught  his  timid, 
uneasy  look,  imploring  a  recognition  and  hiding  from  it  at 
the  same  time.  The  idea  that  one  day  he  could  humiliate 
himself  thus,  gave  him  a  shudder  of  revolt.  "  Oh !  that  is 
not  possible !  "    And  straightening  himself  up  and  throwing 

376 


Dramas  of  Paris 

out  his  chest,  he  kept  on  his  way,  firmer  and  more  resolute 
than  before. 

M.  de  Monpavon  walks  to  his  death !  He  goes  there 
by  the  long  line  of  the  boulevards,  all  on  fire  in  the  direction 
of  the  Madeleine,  where  he  treads  the  elastic  asphalt  once 
more  as  a  lounger,  nose  in  the  air,  hands  crossed  behind. 
He  has  time ;  there  is  no  hurry ;  he  is  master  of  the  ren- 
dezvous. At  each  instant  he  smiles  before  him,  waves  a 
greeting  from  the  ends  of  his  fingers  or  makes  the  more 
formal  bow  we  have  just  seen.  Everything  revives  him, 
charms  him,  the  noise  of  the  watering-carts,  the  awnings  of 
the  cafes,  pulled  down  to  the  middle  of  the  foot-paths.  The 
approach  of  death  gives  him  the  feelings  of  a  convalescent 
accessible  to  all  the  delicacy,  the  hidden  poesy  of  an  ex- 
quisite hour  of  summer  in  the  midst  of  Parisian  life — of  atx 
exquisite  hour — his  last,  and  which  he  will  prolong  till  night. 
No  doubt  it  is  for  that  reason  that  he  passes  the  sumptuous 
establishment  where  he  ordinarily  takes  his  bath.  He  does 
not  stop  either  at  the  Chinese  Baths.  He  is  too  well  known 
here.  All  Paris  would  know  of  it  the  same  evening.  There 
would  be  a  scandal  of  bad  taste,  much  coarse  rumour  about 
his  death  in  the  clubs  and  drawing-rooms.  And  the  old 
sensualist,  the  well-bred  man,  wishes  to  spare  himself  this 
shame,  to  plunge  and  be  swallowed  up  in  the  vague  ano- 
nymity of  suicide,  like  those  soldiers  who,  after  great  battles, 
neither  wounded,  dead,  or  living,  are  simply  put  down  as 
"  missing."  That  is  why  he  has  nothing  on  him  which 
can  be  recognised,  or  furnish  a  hint  to  the  inquiries  of  the 
police,  why  he  seeks  in  this  immense  Paris  the  distant  quar- 
ter where  will  open  for  him  the  terrible  but  oblivious  confu- 
sion of  the  pauper's  grave.  Already,  since  Monpavon  has 
been  walking,  the  aspect  of  the  boulevard  has  changed.  The 
crowd  has  become  compact,  more  active  and  preoccupied, 
the  houses  smaller,  marked  with  signs  of  commerce.  When 
the  gates  of  Saint-Denis  and  Saint-Martin  are  passed,  with 
their  overflow  from  the  faubourgs,  the  provincial  physiog- 
nomy of  the  town  accentuates  itself.  The  old  beau  no 
longer  knows  any  one,  and  can  congratulate  himself  on 
being  unknown. 

Z77 


The  Nabob 

The  shopkeepers  looking  curiously  after  him,  with  his 
fine  linen,  his  well-cut  coat,  and  good  figure,  take  him  for 
some  famous  actor  strolling  on  the  boulevard — witness  of 
his  first  triumphs — before  the  play  begins.  The  wind  fresh- 
ens, the  twilight  softens  the  distances,  and  while  the  long 
road  behind  him  still  glitters,  it  grows  darker  now  at  every 
step — like  the  past,  with  its  retrospections  to  him  who  looks 
back  and  regrets.  It  seems  to  Monpavon  that  he  is  walk- 
ing into  blackness.  He  shivers  a  little,  but  does  not  falter, 
and  continues  to  walk  with  erect  head  and  chest  thrown  out. 

M.  de  Monpavon  walks  to  his  death!  Now  he  is  en- 
tering the  complicated  labyrinth  of  noisy  streets,  where  the 
clatter  of  the  omnibus  mingles  with  the  thousand  humming 
trades  of  the  working  city,  where  the  heat  of  the  factory 
chimneys  loses  itself  in  the  fever  of  a  whole  people  strug- 
gling against  hunger.  The  air  trembles,  the  gutters  steam, 
the  houses  shake  at  the  passing  of  the  wagons,  of  the  heavy 
drays  rumbling  round  the  narrow  streets.  On  a  sudden  the 
marquis  stops ;  he  has  found  what  he  wanted.  Between  the 
black  shop  of  a  charcoal-seller  and  the  establishment  of  a 
packing-case  maker,  whose  pine  boards  leaning  on  the  w'alls 
give  him  a  little  shiver,  there  is  a  wide  door,  surmounted  by 
its  sign,  the  word  BATHS  on  a  dirty  lantern.  He  enters, 
crosses  a  little  damp  garden  where  a  jet  of  water  weeps  in  a 
rockery.  Here  is  the  gloomy  corner  he  was  looking  for. 
Who  would  ever  believe  that  the  Marquis  de  Monpavon  had 
come  there  to  cut  his  throat  ?  The  house  is  at  the  end,  low, 
with  green  blinds  and  a  glass  door,  with  a  sham  air  of  a 
villa.  He  asks  for  a  bath,  and  while  it  is  being  prepared  he 
smokes  his  cigar  at  the  window,  with  the  noise  of  the  water 
behind  him,  looks  at  the  flower-bed  of  sparse  lilac,  and  the 
high  walls  which  inclose  it. 

At  the  side  there  is  a  great  yard,  the  court-yard  of  a 
fire  station,  with  a  gA^mnasium,  whose  masts  and  swings, 
vaguely  seen  from  below,  look  like  gibbets.  A  bugle-call 
sounds  in  the  yard,  and  its  call  takes  the  marquis  thirty 
years  back,  reminds  him  of  his  campaigns  in  Algeria,  the 
high  ramparts  of  Constantine,  the  arrival  of  Mora  at  the 
regiment,  and  the  duels,  and  the  little  parties.    Ah !  how  well 

378 


Dramas  of  Paris 

life  began  then!  What  a  pity  that  those  cursed  cards — 
ps — ps — ps —  Well,  it's  something  to  have  saved  ap- 
pearances. 

"  Your  bath  is  ready,  sir,"  said  the  attendant. 

At  that  moment,  breathless  and  pale,  Mme.  Jenkins  was 
entering  Andre's  studio,  where  an  instinct  stronger  than 
her  will  had  brought  her — the  wisli  to  embrace  her  child 
before  she  died.  When  she  opened  the  door  (he  had 
given  her  a  key)  she  was  relieved  to  find  that  he  was  not 
there,  and  that  she  would  have  time  to  calm  her  excite- 
ment, increased  as  it  was  by  the  long  walk  to  which  she  was 
so  little  accustomed.  No  one  was  there.  But  on  the  table 
was  the  little  note  which  he  always  left  when  he  went  out, 
so  that  his  mother,  whose  visits  were  becoming  shorter  and 
less  frequent  on  account  of  the  tyranny  of  Jenkins,  could 
tell  where  he  was,  and  wait  for  him  or  rejoin  him  easily. 
The  two  had  not  ceased  to  love  each  other  deeply,  tenderly, 
in  spite  of  the  cruelty  of  life  which  forced  into  the  relations 
of  mother  and  son  the  clandestine  precautions  of  an  intrigue. 

"  I  am  at  my  rehearsal,"  said  the  note  to-day,  "  I  shall  be 
back  at  seven." 

This  attention  of  the  son,  whom  she  had  not  seen  for 
three  weeks,  yet  who  persisted  in  expecting  her  all  the  same, 
brought  to  the  mother's  eyes  the  flood  of  tears  which  was 
suffocating  her.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  just  entered  a  new 
world.  This  little  room  was  so  pure,  so  quiet,  so  elevated. 
It  kept  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  on  its  windows,  and 
seemed,  with  its  bare  walls,  hewn  from  a  corner  of  the  sky. 
It  was  adorned  only  with  one  great  portrait,  hers,  nothing 
but  hers,  smiling  in  the  place  of  honour,  and  again,  down 
there,  on  the  table  in  a  gilt  frame.  This  humble  little  lodg- 
ing, so  light  when  all  Paris  was  becoming  dark,  made  an 
extraordinary  impression  on  her,  in  spite  of  the  poverty  of 
its  sparse  furniture,  scattered  in  two  rooms,  its  common 
chintz,  and  its  chimney  garnished  with  two  great  bunches 
of  hyacinths — those  flowers  which  are  hawked  round  the 
streets  in  barrowsful.  What  a  good  and  worthy  life  she 
could  have  led  by  the  side  of  her  Andre!     And  in  her 

379 


The  Nabob 

mind's  eye  she  had  arranged  her  bed  in  one  comer,  her 
piano  in  another,  she  saw  herself  giving  lessons,  and  caring 
for  the  home  to  which  she  was  adding  her  share  of  ease  and 
courageous  gaiety.  How  was  it  she  had  not  seen  that  her 
duty,  the  pride  of  her  widowhood,  was  there?  By  what 
blindness,  what  unworthy  weakness? 

It  was  a  great  fault,  no  doubt,  but  one  for  which  many 
excuses  might  be  found  in  her  easy  and  tender  disposition, 
and  the  clever  knavery  of  her  accomplice,  always  talking  of 
marriage,  hiding  from  her  that  he  himself  was  no  longer 
free,  and  when  at  last  obliged  to  confess  it,  painting  such  a 
picture  of  his  dull  life,  of  his  despair,  of  his  love,  that  the 
poor  creature,  so  deeply  compromised  already,  and  incapa- 
ble of  one  of  those  heroic  efforts  which  raise  the  sufferer 
above  false  situations,  had  given  way  at  last,  had  accepted 
this  double  existence,  so  brilliant  and  so  miserable,  built  on 
a  lie  which  had  lasted  ten  years.  Ten  years  of  intoxicating 
success  and  unspeakable  unhappiness^ — ten  years  of  sing- 
ing, with  the  fear  of  exposure  between  each  verse — where 
the  least  remark  on  irregular  unions  wounded  her  like  an 
allusion — where  the  expression  of  her  face  had  softened  to 
the  air  of  mild  humility,  of  a  guilty  woman  begging  for 
pardon.  Then  the  certainty  that  she  would  be  deserted  had 
come  to  spoil  even  these  borrowed  joys,  had  tarnished  her 
luxury ;  and  what  misery,  what  sulTerings  borne  in  silence, 
what  incessant  humiliations,  even  to  this  last,  the  most  ter- 
rible of  all ! 

While  she  is  thus  sadly  reviewing  her  life  in  the  cool  of 
the  evening  and  the  calm  of  the  deserted  house,  a  gust  of 
happy  laughter  rose  from  the  rooms  beneath ;  and  recalling 
the  confidences  of  Andre,  his  last  letter  telling  the  great 
news,  she  tried  to  distinguish  arnong  all  these  fresh  and 
limpid  voices  that  of  her  daughter  Elise,  her  son's  betrothed, 
whom  she  did  not  know,  whom  she  would  never  know.  This 
reflection  added  to  the  misery  of  her  last  moments,  and  load- 
ed them  with  so  much  remorse  and  regret  that,  in  spite  of  her 
will  to  be  brave,  she  wept. 

Night  comes  on  little  by  little.  Large  shadows  cover  the 
sloping  windows,  where  the  immense  depth  of  the  sky  seems 

380 


Dramas  of  Paris 

to  lose  its  colour,  and  to  deepen  into  obscurity.  The  roofs 
seem  to  draw  closer  together  for  the  night,  like  soldiers  pre- 
paring for  the  attack.  The  bells  count  the  hours  gravely, 
while  the  martins  fly  round  their  hidden  nests,  and  the  wind 
makes  its  accustomed  invasion  of  the  rubbish  of  the  old 
wood-yard.  To-night  it  sighs  with  the  sound  of  the  river, 
a  shiver  of  the  fog ;  it  sighs  of  the  river,  to  remind  the  un- 
fortunate woman  that  it  is  there  she  must  go.  She  shivers 
beforehand  in  her  lace  mantle.  Why  did  she  come  here  to 
reawaken  her  desire  for  a  life  impossible  after  the  avowal 
she  was  forced  to  make  ?  Hasty  steps  shake  the  staircase ; 
the  door  opens  precipitately;  it  is  Andre.  He  is  singing, 
happy,  in  a  great  hurry,  for  they  are  waiting  dinner  for  him 
below.  Quick,  a  little  light  for  the  lover  to  beautify  him- 
self. But,  as  he  is  striking  the  match,  he  feels  that  some 
one  is  in  the  room — a  moving  shadow  among  the  shadows 
at  rest. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  " 

Something  answers  him  like  a  stifled  laugh  or  a  sob. 
He  believes  that  it  is  one  of  his  little  neighbours,  a  plot  of 
the  children  to  amuse  themselves.  He  draws  near.  Two 
hands,  two  arms,  seize  and  surround  him. 

"  It  is  I." 

And  with  a  feverish  voice,  hurrying  as  if  to  assure  her- 
self, she  tells  him  that  she  is  setting  out  on  a  long  journey, 
and  that  before  going 

"A  journey!    And  where  are  you  going?" 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  know.  We  are  going  over  there,  a  long 
way,  on  business  in  his  own  part  of  the  world." 

"What!  You  will  not  be  there  for  my  play?  It  is  in 
three  days.  And  then,  immediately  after,  my  marriage. 
Come  now,  he  cannot  hinder  you  from  coming  to  my  mar- 
riage? '' 

She  makes  excuses,  imagines  reasons,  but  her  hands 
burning  between  her  son's,  and  her  altered  voice,  tell  Andre 
that  she  is  not  speaking  the  truth.  He  is  going  to  strike 
a  light ;  she  prevents  him. 

"  No,  no ;  it  is  useless.  We  are  better  without  it.  Be- 
sides, I  have  so  much  to  get  ready  still.    I  must  go  away." 

381 


The  Nabob 

They  are  both  standing  up,  ready  for  the  separation,  but 
Andre  will  not  let  her  go  without  telling  him  what  is  the 
matter,  what  tragic  care  is  hollowing  that  fair  face  where 
the  eyes — was  it  an  effect  of  the  dusk  ? — shone  with  a  strange 
light. 

"  Nothing ;  no,  nothing,  I  assure  you.  Only  the  idea  of 
not  being  able  to  take  part  in  your  happiness,  your  tri- 
umph. At  any  rate,  you  know  I  love  you ;  you  don't  mis- 
trust your  mother,  do  you  ?  I  have  never  been  a  day  with- 
out thinking  of  you :  do  the  same — keep  me  in  your  heart. 
And  now  kiss  me  and  let  me  go  quickly.  I  have  waited 
too  long." 

Another  minute  and  she  would  not  have  the  strength  for 
what  she  had  to  do.     She  darts  forward. 

"  No,  you  shall  not  go.  I  feel  that  something  extraor- 
dinary is  happening  in  your  life  which  you  do  not  want  to 
tell.  You  are  in  some  great  trouble,  I  am  sure.  This 
man  has  done  some  infamous  thing." 

"  No,  no.     Let  me  go !     Let  me  go !  " 

But  he  held  her  fast. 

"Tell  me,  what  is  it?    Tell  me." 

Then,  whispering  in  her  ear,  with  a  voice  tender  and  low 
as  a  kiss : 

"  He  has  left  vou,  hasn't  he?  " 

The  wretched  w^om.an  shivers,  hesitates. 

"  Ask  me  nothing.     I  will  say  nothing.    Adieu !  " 

He  pressed  her  to  his  heart : 

"  What  could  you  tell  me  that  I  do  not  know  already, 
poor  mother?  You  did  not  guess,  then,  why  I  left  six 
months  ago  ?  " 

"You  know?" 

"  I  know  everything.  And  what  has  happened  to  you 
to-day  I  have  foreseen  for  long,  and  hoped  for," 

"  bh,  wretch,  wretch  that  I  am,  why  did  I  come  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  your  home,  because  you  owe  me  ten  years 
of  my  mother.     You  see  now  that  I  must  keep  you." 

He  said  all  this  on  his  knees,  before  the  sofa  on  which  she 
had  let  ^herself  fall,  in  a  flood  of  tears,  and  the  last  painful 
sobs  of  her  wounded  pride.     She  wept  thus  for  long,  her 

382 


Dramas  of  Paris 

child  at  her  feet.  And  now  the  Joyeuse  family,  anxious 
because  Andre  did  not  come  down,  hurried  up  in  a  troop 
to  look  for  him.  It  was  an  invasion  of  innocent  faces,  trans- 
parent gaiety,  floating  curls,  modest  dress,  and  over  all  the 
group  shone  the  big  lamp,  the  good  old  lamp  with  the 
vast  shade  which  M.  Joyeuse  solemnly  carried,  as  high,  as 
straight  as  he  could,  with  the  gesture  of  a  caryatid.  Sud- 
denly they  stopped  before  this  pale  and  sad  lady,  who  looked, 
touched  to  the  depths,  at  all  this  smiling  grace,  above  all  at 
Elise,  a  little  behind  the  others,  whose  conscious  air  in  this 
indiscreet  visit  points  her  out  as  the  fiancee. 

"  Elise,  embrace  our  mother  and  thank  her.  She  has 
come  to  live  with  her  children." 

There  she  is,  caught  in  all  these  caressing  arms,  pressed 
against  four  little  feminine  hearts  which  have  missed  the 
shelter  of  a  mother's  love  for  so  long;  there  she  is  intro- 
duced, and  so  gently,  into  the  luminous  circle  of  the  family 
lamp,  widened  to  allow  her  to  take  her  place  there,  to  dry 
her  eyes,  to  warm  and  brighten  her  spirit  at  this  steady 
flame,  even  in  this  little  studio  near  the  roof,  where  just  now 
the  terrible  storm  blew  so  wildly. 

He  who  breathes  his  last  over  there,  lying  in  his  blood- 
stained bath,  has  never  known  this  sacred  flame.  Egoist- 
ical and  hard,  he  has  lived  up  to  the  last  for  show,  throwing 
out  his  chest  in  a  bubble  of  vanity.  And  this  vanity  was 
what  was  best  in  him.  It  alone  had  held  him  firm  and  up- 
right so  long;  it  alone  clinched  his  teeth  on  the  groans  of 
his  last  agony.  In  the  damp  garden  the  water  drips  sadly. 
The  bugle  of  the  firemen  sounds  the  curfew.  "  Go  and  look 
at  No.  7,"  says  the  mistress,  "  he  will  never  have  done  with 
his  bath."  The  attendant  goes,  and  utters  a  cry  of  fright, 
of  horror :  "  Oh,  madame,  he  is  dead  !  But  it  is  not  the  same 
man."  They  go,  but  nobody  can  recognise  the  fine  gentle- 
man who  entered  a  short  time  ago,  in  this  death's-head  pup- 
pet, the  head  leaning  on  the  edge  of  the  bath,  a  face  where 
the  blood  mingles  with  paint  and  powder,  all  the  limbs  lying 
in  the  supreme  lassitude  of  a  part  played  to  the  end — to  the 
death  of  the  actor.    Two  cuts  of  the  razor  across  the  magnifi- 

383 


The  Nabob 

cent  chest,  and  all  the  factitious  majesty  has  burst  and  re- 
solved itself  into  this  nameless  horror,  this  heap  of  mud,  of 
blood,  of  spoiled  and  dead  flesh,  where,  unrecognisable,  lies 
the  man  of  appearances,  the  Marquis  Louis-Marie-Agenor 
dc  Monpavon. 


384 


XXIII 

MEMOIRS   OF   AN    OFFICE    PORTER — THE    LAST    LEAVES 

I  PUT  down  in  haste  and  with  an  agitated  pen  the  terrible 
events  of  which  I  have  been  the  plaything  for  the  last  few 
days.  This  time  it  is  all  up  with  the  Territorial  and  with 
my  ambitious  dreams.  Disputed  bills,  men  in  possession, 
visits  of  the  police,  all  our  books  in  the  hands  of  the  courts, 
the  governor  fled,  Bois  I'Hery,  the  director,  in  prison,  an- 
other— Monpavon — disappeared.  My  brain  reels  in  the 
midst  of  these  catastrophes.  And  if  I  had  obeyed  the  w^arn- 
ings  of  reason,  I  should  have  been  quietly  six  months  ago 
at  Montbars  cultivating  my  vineyard,  with  no  other  care 
than  that  of  seeing  the  clusters  grow  round  and  golden  in 
the  good  Burgundian  sun,  and  to  gather  from  the  leaves, 
after  the  dew,  the  little  gray  snails,  so  excellent  when  they 
are  fried.  I  should  have  built  for  myself  with  my  savings, 
at  the  end  of  the  vineyard,  on  the  height — I  can  see  the 
place  at  this  moment — a  tower  in  rough  stone,  like  M.  Chal- 
mette's,  so  convenient  for  an  afternoon  nap,  while  the  quails 
are  chirping  round  the  place.  But  always  misled  by  deceiv- 
ing illusions,  I  wished  to  enrich  myself,  speculate,  meddle 
in  finance,  chain  my  fortune  to  the  car  of  the  conquerors 
of  the  day ;  and  now  here  I  am  back  again  in  the  saddest 
pages  of  my  history,  clerk  in  a  bankrupt  establishment,  my 
duty  to  answer  a  horde  of  creditors,  of  shareholders  drunk 
with  fury,  who  load  ray  white  hairs  with  the  w^orst  outrages, 
and  w'ould  like  to  make  me  responsible  for  the  ruin  of  the 
Nabob  and  the  flight  of  the  governor ;  as  if  I  myself  was  not 
as  cruelly  struck  by  the  loss  of  my  four  years  of  arrears, 
and  my  seven  thousand  francs  which  I  had  confided  to  that 
scoundrel  of  Paganetti  de  Porto-Vecchio. 

But  it  is  my  fate  to  empty  the  cup  of  humiliation  and 

385 


The  Nabob 

degradation  to  the  dregs.  Have  I  not  been  made  to  appear 
before  a  Juge  d'Instruction — I,  Passajon,  former  apparitor 
of  the  facuhy,  with  thirty  years  of  faithful  service,  and  the 
ribbon  of  Officer  of  the  Academy  ?  Oh  !  when  I  saw  myself 
going  up  that  staircase  of  the  Palace  of  Justice,  so  big,  so 
conspicuous,  without  a  rail  to  hold  by,  I  felt  my  head  turn- 
ing and  my  legs  sinking  under  me.  I  was  forced  to  re- 
flect there,  crossing  these  halls,  black  with  lawyers  and 
judges,  studded  with  great  green  doors  behind  which  one 
heard  the  imposing  noise  of  the  hearings;  and  up  higher, 
in  the  corridor  of  the  Juges  d'Instruction,  during  my  hour's 
waiting  on  a  bench,  where  the  prison  vermin  crawled  on 
my  legs,  while  I  listened  to  a  lot  of  thieves,  pickpockets, 
and  loose  women  talking  and  laughing  with  the  gendarmes, 
and  the  butts  of  the  rifles  echo  in  the  passages,  and  the  dull 
roll  of  the  prison  vans.  I  understood  then  the  danger  of 
"  combinations,"  and  that  it  was  not  always  good  to  ridicule 
M.  Gogo. 

What  reassured  me,  however,  was  that  never  having 
taken  any  part  in  the  deliberations  of  the  Territorial,  I  had 
no  share  in  their  dealings  and  intrigues.  But  explain  this 
to  me  :  Once  in  the  judge's  office,  before  that  man  in  a  velvet 
cap  looking  at  me  across  his  table  with  his  little  eyes  like 
hooks,  I  felt  so  pierced  through,  searched,  turned  over  to 
the  very  depth  of  my  being,  that,  in  spite  of  my  innocence, 
I  wanted  to  confess.  Confess  what?  I  don't  know.  But 
that  is  the  effect  which  the  law  had.  This  devil  of  a  man 
spent  five  minutes  looking  at  me  without  speaking,  all  the 
while  turning  over  a  book  filled  with  writing  not  unknown 
to  me,  and  suddenly  he  said,  in  a  mocking  and  severe  tone : 

"  Well,  M.  Passajon,  how  long  is  it  since  the  affair  of  the 
drayman  ?  " 

The  memory  of  a  certain  little  misdeed,  in  which  I  had 
taken  part  in  my  days  of  distress,  was  already  so  distant  that 
I  did  not  understand  at  once ;  but  some  words  of  the  judge 
showed  me  how  completely  he  knew  the  history  of  our  bank. 
This  terrible  man  knew  everything,  down  to  the  least  de- 
tails, the  most  secret  things.  Who  could  have  informed  him 
so  thoroughly? 

386 


The  Last  Leaves 

It  was  all  very  short,  very  dry,  and,  when  I  wished  to 
enlighten  justice  with  some  wise  observations,  a  certain  in- 
solent fashion  of  saying,  "  Don't  make  phrases/'  so  much 
the  more  w^ounding  at  my  age  and  with  my  reputation  of  a 
good  talker ;  also  we  were  not  alone  in  his  office.  A  clerk 
seated  near  me  was  writing  down  my  deposition,  and  behind 
I  heard  the  noise  of  great  leaves  turning.  The  judge  asked 
me  all  sorts  of  questions  about  the  Nabob — the  time  when 
he  had  made  his  payments,  the  place  w^here  we  kept  our 
books ;  and  all  at  once,  addressing  himself  to  the  person 
whom  I  could  not  see :  "  Show  us  the  cash-book,  M.  V Ex- 
pert." 

A  little  man  in  a  white  tie  brought  the  great  register 
to  the  table.  It  was  M.  Joyeuse,  the  former  cashier  of 
Hemerlingue  &  Sons.  But  I  had  not  time  to  offer  him 
my  respects. 

"Who  has  done  that?"  asked  the  judge,  opening  the 
book  where  a  page  was  torn  out.    "  Don't  lie,  now," 

I  did  not  lie ;  I  knew  nothing  of  it,  never  having  had  to 
do  with  the  books.  However,  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  men- 
tion M,  de  Gery,  the  Nabob's  secretary,  who  often  came  at 
night  into  the  office  and  shut  himself  up  for  hours  casting 
balances.    Then  little  Father  Joyeuse  turned  red  with  anger. 

"  That  is  an  absurdity,  M.  le  Juge  d'Instruction.  M.  de 
Gery  is  the  young  man  of  \\-hom  I  have  spoken  to  you.  He 
came  to  the  Territorial  as  a  superintendent,  and  thought 
too  much  of  this  poor  M.  Jansoulet  to  remove  the  receipts 
for  his  payments ;  that  is  the  proof  of  his  blind  but  thorough 
honesty.  Besides,  M.  de  Gery,  who  has  been  detained  in 
Tunis,  is  on  his  way  back,  and  will  furnish  before  long  all 
the  explanation  necessary." 

I  felt  that  my  zeal  was  about  to  compromise  me. 

"  Take  care,  Passajon,"  said  the  judge.  "  You  are  only 
here  as  a  witness ;  but  if  you  attempt  to  mislead  justice,  you 
may  return  a  prisoner  "  Che,  the  monster,  had,  indeed,  the 
manner  of  desiring  it).  "  Come  now,  consider ;  who  tore  out 
this  page?  " 

Then  I  very  fortunately  remembered  that  some  days  be- 
fore he  left  Paris  the  governor  had  made  me  bring  the 

387  Vol.  18— R 


The  Nabob 

books  to  his  house,  where  they  were  all  night.  The  clerk 
took  a  note  of  my  declaration,  after  which  the  judge  dis- 
missed me  with  a  sign,  warning  me  to  be  ready  when  I  was 
wanted.  Then,  on  the  threshold,  he  called  me  back  :  "  Stay, 
M.  Passajon,  take  this  away.     I  don't  want  it  any  more." 

He  held  out  the  papers  he  had  been  consulting  while 
he  was  questioning  me ;  and  judge  of  my  confusion  when  I 
saw  on  the  cover  the  word  "  Memoirs,"  written  in  my  best 
round-hand.  I,  myself,  had  provided  material  to  Justice — 
important  details  which  the  suddenness  of  our  catastrophe 
had  prevented  me  from  saving  from  the  police  search  of  our 
ofRce. 

My  first  idea  on  returning  home  was  to  tear  up  these 
indiscreet  papers  ;  but  on  reflection,  and  after  having  assured 
myself  that  the  Memoirs  contained  nothing  that  would  com- 
promise me,  I  have  decided  to  go  on  with  them,  with  the  cer- 
tainty of  getting  some  profit  out  of  them  one  day  or  another. 
There  are  plenty  of  novelists  at  Paris  who  have  no  imagina- 
tion and  can  only  put  true  stories  in  their  books,  who  would 
be  glad  to  buy  a  little  book  of  incidents.  That  is  how  I 
shall  avenge  myself  on  this  society  of  well-to-do  swindlers, 
with  which  I  have  been  mixed  up  to  my  shame  and  mis- 
fortune. 

Besides,  I  must  occupy  my  leisure  time.  There  is  noth- 
ing to  do  at  the  bank,  which  is  completely  deserted  since  the 
judicial  inquiry  began,  except  to  arrange  the  bills  of  all  col- 
ours. I  have  again  undertaken  the  writing  for  the  cook  on 
the  second  floor,  Mile.  Seraphine,  from  whom  I  accept  in 
return  some  little  refreshment,  which  I  keep  in  the  strong- 
box, once  more  become  a  provision  safe.  The  wife  of  the 
governor  is  also  very  good  to  me,  and  stuffs  my  pockets  each 
time  I  go  to  see  her  in  her  great  rooms  on  the  Chaussee 
d'Antin.  There  nothing  has  changed ;  the  same  luxury,  the 
same  comfort,  also  a  three-months'-old  baby — the  seventh 
— and  a  superb  nurse,  whose  Norman  cap  is  the  admiration 
of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  It  seems  that  once  started  on  the 
rails  of  fortune,  people  need  a  certain  time  to  slacken  their 
speed  or  stop.  Besides,  this  thief  of  a  Paganetti  had,  in  case 
of  accident,  settled  everything  on  his  wife.    Perhaps  that  is 

388 


The  Last  Leaves 

why  this  rag-bag  of  an  Italian  woman  has  such  an  unshak- 
able admiration  for  him.  He  has  fled,  he  is  in  hiding ;  but 
she  remains  convinced  that  her  husband  is  a  little  Saint-John 
of  innocence,  the  victim  of  his  goodness  and  credulity.  One 
ought  to  hear  her.  "  You  know  him,  you  Moussiou  Passa- 
jon.  You  know  if  he  is  scrupulous.  But  as  true  as  there  is 
a  God,  if  my  husband  had  committed  such  crimes  as  he  is 
accused  of,  I  myself — you  hear  me — I  myself  would  put  a 
blunderbuss  in  his  hands,  and  would  say  to  him,  '  Here, 
Tchecco,  blow  out  your  brains ! '  "  and  by  the  way  in  which 
she  opens  the  nostrils  of  her  little  turned-up  nose,  her  round 
eyes,  black  as  jet,  one  feels  that  this  little  Corsican  would 
have  acted  as  she  spoke.  He  must  be  very  clever,  this  infer- 
nal governor,  to  deceive  even  his  wife,  to  act  a  part  even  at 
home,  where  the  cleverest  let  themselves  be  seen  as  they 
really  are. 

In  the  meantime  all  these  rogues  have  good  dinners; 
even  Bois  I'Hery  has  his  meals  sent  in  to  the  prison  from 
the  Cafe  Anglais,  and  poor  old  Passajon  is  reduced  to  live 
on  scraps  picked  up  in  the  kitchen.  Still  we  must  not 
grumble  too  much.  There  are  others  more  wretched  than 
we  are — witness  M.  Francis,  who  came  in  this  morning  to 
the  Territorial,  thin,  pale,  with  dirty  linen  and  frayed  cuflfs, 
which  he  still  pulled  down  by  force  of  habit. 

I  was  at  the  moment  grilling  some  bacon  before  the  fire 
in  the  board-room,  my  plate  laid  on  the  corner  of  a  mar- 
queterie  table,  with  a  newspaper  underneath  to  preserve  it 
I  invited  Monpavon's  valet  to  share  my  frugal  meal ;  but 
since  he  has  waited  on  a  marquis  he  has  come  to  think  that 
he  formed  part  of  the  nobility,  and  he  declined  with  a  dig- 
nified air,  perfectly  ridiculous  with  his  hollow  cheeks.  He 
began  by  telling  me  that  he  still  had  no  news  of  his  master; 
that  they  had  sent  him  away  from  the  club,  all  the  papers 
under  seal,  and  a  horde  of  creditors  like  locusts  on  the  mar- 
quis's small  wardrobe.  "  So  that  I  am  a  little  short,"  added 
M.  Francis.  That  is  to  say,  that  he  had  not  the  worth  of  a 
radish  in  his  pockets,  that  he  had  been  sleeping  for  two 
days  on  the  benches  in  the  streets,  awakened  at  each  instant 
by  the  police,  obliged  to  rise,  to  pretend  to  be  drunk  so  as 

389 


The  Nabob 

to  seek  another  shelter.  As  to  eating,  I  believe  he  had  not 
done  so  for  a  long  time,  for  he  looked  at  the  food  with  such 
hungry  eyes  as  to  wring  one's  heart,  and  when  I  insisted  on 
putting  before  him  a  slice  of  bacon  and  a  glass  of  wine,  he 
fell  on  it  like  a  wolf.  All  at  once  the  blood  came  back  to 
his  cheeks  and,  still  eating,  he  began  to  chatter. 

"  You  know,  pere  Passajon,"  said  he  to  me  between  two 
mouthfuls,  "  I  know  where  he  is,     I  have  seen  him," 

He  winked  his  eye  knowingly.  I  looked  at  him  in  won- 
der.    ''  Who  is  it  you  have  seen,  M.  Francis?  " 

"  The  marquis,  my  master — over  there  in  the  little  white 
house  behind  Notre-Dame."  (He  did  not  use  the  word 
morgue,  it  is  too  low,)  "  I  was  sure  I  should  find  him  there. 
I  went  there  first  thing  next  morning.  There  he  was.  Oh, 
well  disguised,  I  tell  you.  Only  his  valet  could  recognise 
him.  The  hair  gray,  the  teeth  gone,  the  wrinkles  showing 
his  sixty-five  years,  which  he  used  to  hide  so  well.  On  the 
marble  slab,  with  the  tap  running  above,  I  seemed  to  see 
him  at  his  dressing-table," 

"And  you  said  nothing?" 

"  No.  I  knew  his  intentions  on  the  subject  for  long.  I 
let  him  go  away  discreetly,  without  awakening  attention,  as 
he  wished.  But,  all  the  same,  he  might  have  given  me  a 
crust  of  bread  before  he  went,  after  a  service  of  twenty 
years." 

And  on  a  sudden,  striking  the  table  with  his  fist  with 
rage : 

"  When  I  think  that  if  I  had  liked  I  might  have  been 
with  Mora,  instead  of  going  to  Monpavon,  that  I  might 
have  had  Louis's  place.  What  luck  he  has  had  !  How  many 
bags  of  gold  he  laid  his  hands  on  when  his  duke  died !  And 
the  wardrobe — hundreds  of  shirts,  a  dressing-gown  of  blue 
fox  fur  worth  more  than  twenty  thousand  francs.  Like  Noel, 
too,  he  must  have  made  his  pile !  He  had  to  hurry,  too,  for 
he  knew  that  it  would  stop  soon.  Now  there  is  nothing  to 
be  got  in  the  Place  Vendome,  An  old  policeman  of  a 
mother  who  manages  everything.  Saint-Romans  is  to  be 
sold,  the  pictures  are  to  be  sold,  half  the  house  to  be  let. 
It  is  a  real  break-up." 

390 


The  Last  Leaves 

I  must  confess  that  I  could  not  help  showing  my  satis- 
faction, for  this  wretched  Jansoulet  is  the  cause  of  all  our 
misfortunes,  A  man  who  boasted  of  being  so  rich,  who 
said  so  everywhere.  The  public  bit  at  it  like  a  fish  who  sees 
the  scales  shine  through  the  net.  He  has  lost  millions,  I 
admit,  but  why  did  he  make  us  believe  he  had  more  ?  They 
have  arrested  Bois  I'Hery;  they  should  have  arrested  him. 
Ah !  if  we  had  had  another  expert,  I  am  sure  it  would  have 
been  done.  Besides,  as  I  said  to  Francis,  you  had  only  to 
look  at  this  upstart  of  a  Jansoulet  to  see  what  he  was  worth. 
What  a  head — like  a  bandit ! 

"  And  so  common,"  said  the  ex-valet. 

"  No  principles." 

"  An  absolute  want  of  form.  Well,  there  he  is  on  his 
beam-ends,  and  then  Jenkins,  too,  and  plenty  of  others  with 
them." 

"  What !  the  doctor  too  ?  Ah  !  so  much  the  worse.  Such 
a  polite  and  amiable  man." 

"  Yes,  still  another  breaking-up  of  his  establishment 
Horses,  carriages,  furniture.  The  yard  of  the  house  is  full 
of  bills,  and  it  sounds  as  empty  as  if  some  one  were  dead. 
The  place  at  Nanterre  is  on  sale.  There  were  half  a  dozen 
of  the  '  little  Bethlehems  '  left  whom  they  packed  up  in  a 
cab.  It  is  a  break-up,  I  tell  you,  pere  Passajon,  a  ruin  which 
we,  old  as  we  are,  may  not  see  the  end  of,  but  it  will  be  com- 
plete.   Everything  is  rotten,  it  must  all  come  down !  " 

He  was  a  sinister  figure,  this  old  steward  of  the  Empire, 
thin,  stubbly,  covered  with  mud,  and  shouting  like  a  Jere- 
miah, "  It  is  the  downfall !  "  with  a  toothless  mouth,  black 
and  wide  open.  I  felt  afraid  and  ashamed  of  him,  with  a 
great  desire  to  see  him  outside,  and  I  thought :  "  Oh,  M. 
Chalmette  !     Oh,  my  little  vineyard  of  Montbars  !  " 

Same  date. — Great  news.  Mme.  Paganetti  came  this 
afternoon  to  bring  me  mysteriously  a  letter  from  the  gov- 
ernor. He  is  in  London,  going  to  begin  a  magnificent  thing. 
Fine  offices  in  the  best  part  of  the  town,  a  superb  list  of 
shareholders.  He  offers  me  the  chance  of  joining  him, 
"  happy  to  repair  thus  the  damage  he  has  caused  me,"  says 

391 


The  Nabob 

he.  I  shall  have  twice  my  wages  at  the  Territorial,  be 
lodged  comfortably,  five  shares  in  the  new  bank,  and  all  my 
arrears  paid.  All  I  need  is  a  little  money  to  go  there  and  to 
pay  a  few  small  debts  round  here.  Good  luck !  My  for- 
tune is  assured.  I  shall  write  to  the  notary  of  Monlb'ars  to 
mortgage  my  vineyard. 


392 


XXIV 

AT   BORDIGHERA 

As  M.  Joyeuse  had  told  the  Juge  d'Instruction,  Paul 
de  Gery  returned  from  Tunis  after  three  weeks'  absence. 
Three  interminable  weeks  spent  in  struggling  among  in- 
trigues, and  traps  secretly  laid  by  the  powerful  hatred  of  the 
Hemerlingues — in  wandering  from  hall  to  hall,  from  minis- 
try to  ministry  through  the  immense  palace  of  the  Bardo, 
which  gathered  within  one  enclosure,  bristling  with  culver- 
ins,  all  the  departments  of  the  State,  as  much  under  the 
master's  eye  as  his  stables  and  harem.  On  his  arrival,  Paul 
had  learned  that  the  Chamber  of  Justice  was  preparing 
secretly  Jansoulet's  trial — a  derisive  trial,  lost  beforehand; 
and  the  closed  ofifices  of  the  Nabob  on  the  Marine  Quay, 
the  seals  on  his  strong  boxes,  his  ships  moored  to  the  Gou- 
lette,  a  guard  round  his  palace,  seemed  to  speak  of  a  sort  of 
civil  death,  of  a  disputed  succession  of  which  the  spoils 
would  not  long  remain  to  be  shared. 

There  was  not  a  defender,  nor  a  friend,  in  this  voracious 
crowd ;  the  French  colony  itself  appeared  satisfied  with  the 
fall  of  a  courtier  who  had  so  long  monopolized  the  roads  to 
favour.  To  attempt  to  snatch  this  prey  from  the  Bey,  ex- 
cept by  a  striking  triumph  at  the  Assembly,  was  not  to  be 
thought  of.  All  that  de  Gery  could  hope  for  was  to  save 
some  shreds  of  his  fortune,  and  this  only  if  he  hurried,  for 
he  was  expecting  day  by  day  to  learn  of  his  friend's  com- 
plete ruin. 

He  set  himself  to  work,  therefore,  hurried  on  his  business 
with  an  activity  which  nothing  could  discourage,  neither 
Oriental  discursiveness — that  refined  fair-spoken  politeness, 
under  which  is  hidden  ferocity — nor  coolly  indififcrent  smiles, 
nor  averted  looks,  invoking  divine  fatalism  when  human  lies 

393 


The  Nabob 

fail.  The  self-possession  of  this  southerner,  in  whom  was 
condensed,  as  it  were,  all  the  exuberance  of  his  compatriots, 
served  him  as  well  as  his  perfect  knowledge  of  French  law, 
of  which  the  Code  of  Tunis  is  only  a  disfigured  copy. 

By  his  diplomacy  and  discretion,  in  spite  of  the  intrigues 
of  Hemerlingue's  son — who  was  very  influential  at  the  Bardo 
., — he  succeeded  in  withdrawing  from  confiscation  the  money 
lent  by  the  Nabob  some  months  before,  and  to  snatch  ten 
millions  out  of  fifteen  from  Mohammed's  rapacity.  The  very 
morning  of  the  day  on  which  the  money  was  to  be  paid  over, 
he  received  from  Paris  the  news  of  the  unseating  of  Jansou- 
let.  He  hurried  at  once  to  the  Palace  to  arrive  there  before 
the  news,  and  on  his  return  with  the  ten  millions  in  bills  on 
Marseilles  secure  in  his  pocket-book,  he  passed  young  Hem- 
erlingue's carriage,  with  his  three  mules  at  full  gallop.  The 
thin  owl's  face  was  radiant.  De  Gery  understood  that  if  he 
remained  many  hours  at  Tunis  his  bills  ran  the  risk  of  being 
confiscated,  so  took  his  place  at  once  on  an  Italian  packet 
which  was  sailing  next  morning  for  Genoa,  passed  the  night 
on  board,  and  was  only  easy  in  his  mind  when  he  saw  far 
behind  him  white  Tunis  with  her  gulf  and  the  rocks  of  Cape 
Carthage  spread  out  before  her.  On  entering  Genoa,  the 
steamer  while  making  for  the  quay  passed  near  a  great 
yacht  with  the  Tunisian  flag  flying.  De  Gery  felt  greatly  ex- 
cited, and  for  a  moment  believed  that  she  had  come  in  pur- 
suit of  him,  and  that  on  landing  he  might  be  seized  by  the 
Italian  police  like  a  common  thief.  But  the  yacht  was  swing- 
ing peacefully  at  anchor,  her  sailors  cleaning  the  deck  or 
repainting  the  red  siren  of  her  figurehead,  as  if  they  were 
expecting  some  one  of  importance.  Paul  had  not  the  curi- 
osity to  ask  who  this  personage  was.  He  crossed  the  mar- 
ble city,  and  returned  by  the  coast  railway  from  Genoa  to 
Marseilles — that  marvellous  route  where  one  passes  sud- 
denly from  the  blackness  of  the  tunnels  to  the  dazzling  light 
of  the  blue  sea. 

At  Savona  the  train  stopped,  and  the  passengers  were 
told  that  they  could  go  no  farther,  as  one  of  the  little 
bridges  over  the  torrents  which  rush  from  the  mountains 
to  the  sea  had  been  broken  during  the  night.     They  must 

394 


At  Bordighera 


\vait  for  the  engineer  and  the  break-down  gang,  already 
summoned  by  telegraph ;  wait  perhaps  a  half  day.  It  was 
early  morning.  The  Italian  town  was  waking  in  one  of 
those  veiled  dawns  which  forecast  great  heat  for  the  day. 
While  the  dispersed  travellers  took  refuge  in  the  hotels, 
installed  themselves  in  the  cafes,  and  others  visited  the  town, 
de  Gery,  chafing  at  the  delay,  tried  to  think  of  some  means 
of  saving  these  few  hours.  He  thought  of  poor  Jansoulet, 
to  whom  the  money  he  was  bringing  might  save  honour 
and  life,  of  his  dear  Aline,  her  whose  remembrance  had  not 
quitted  him  a  single  day  of  his  journey,  no  more  than  the 
portrait  which  she  had  given  him.  Then  he  was  inspired  to 
hire  one  of  the  four-horse  calesinos  which  run  from  Genoa 
to  Nice,  along  the  Italian  Corniche — an  adorable  trip  which 
foreigners,  lovers,  and  winners  at  Monaco  often  enjoy.  The 
driver  guaranteed  that  he  would  be  at  Nice  early ;  and  even 
if  he  arrived  no  earlier  than  the  train,  his  impatient  spirit 
felt  the  comfort  of  movement,  of  feeling  at  each  turn  of  the 
wheel  the  distance  from  his  desire  decrease. 

On  a  fine  morning  in  June,  when  one  is  young  and  in 
love,  it  is  a  delicious  intoxication  to  tear  behind  four  horses 
over  the  white  Corniche  road.  To  the  left,  a  hundred  feet 
below,  the  sea  sparkling  with  foam,  from  the  rounded  rocks 
of  the  shore  to  those  vapoury  distances  where  the  blue  of 
the  waves  and  of  the  heavens  mingle ;  red  or  white  sails  are 
scattered  over  it  like  wings,  steamers  leaving  behind  them 
their  trail  of  smoke ;  and  on  the  sands,  fishermen  no  larger 
than  birds,  in  their  anchored  boats  like  nests.  Then  the 
road  descends,  follows  a  rapid  declivity  along  the  rocks  and 
sharp  promontories.  The  fresh  wind  from  the  waves  shakes 
the  little  harness  bells ;  while  on  the  right,  on  the  side  of  the 
mountain,  the  rows  of  pine-trees,  the  green  oaks  with  roots 
capriciously  leaving  the  arid  soil,  and  olive-trees  growing 
on  their  terraces,  up  to  a  wide  and  white  pebbly  ravine,  bor- 
dered with  grass,  marking  the  passage  of  the  waters.  This 
is  really  a  dried-up  water-course,  which  the  loaded  mules 
ascend  with  firm  foot  among  the  shingle,  and  a  washer- 
woman stoops  near  a  microscopic  pond — the  few  drops  that 
remained  of  the  great  inundation  of  winter.    From  time  to 

395 


The  Nabob 

time  one  crosses  the  street  of  some  village,  or  little  town 
rather,  grown  rusty  through  too  much  sun,  of  historic  age, 
the  houses  closely  packed  and  joined  by  dark  arcades — a 
network  of  vaulted  courts  which  clamber  the  hillside  with 
glimpses  of  the  upper  daylight,  here  and  there  letting  one  see 
crowds  of  children  with  aureoles  of  hair,  baskets  of  brilliant 
fruit,  a  woman  coming  down  the  road,  her  water-pot  on  her 
head  and  her  distafif  on  her  arm.  Then  at  a  corner  of  the 
street,  the  blue  sparkle  of  the  waves  and  the  immensity  of 
nature. 

But  as  the  day  advanced,  the  sun  rising  in  the  heavens 
spread  over  the  sea — now  escaped  from  its  mists,  still  with 
the  transparence  of  quartz — thousands  of  rays  striking  the 
water  like  arrow-heads,  a  dazzling  S4ght,  made  doubly  so  by 
the  whiteness  of  the  rocks  and  of  the  soil,  by  a  veritable 
African  sirocco  which  raised  the  dust  in  a  whirlwind  on  the 
road.  They  were  coming  to  the  hottest  and  most  sheltered 
places  of  the  Corniche — a  true  exotic  temperature,  scatter- 
ing dates,  cactus,  and  aloes.  Seeing  these  thin  trunks,  this 
fantastic  vegetation  in  the  white  hot  air,  feeling  the  blinding 
dust  crackle  under  the  wheels  like  snow,  de  Gery,  his  eyes 
half  closed,  dreaming  in  this  leaden  noon,  thought  he  was 
once  more  on  that  fatiguing  road  from  Tunis  to  the  Bardo, 
in  a  singular  medley  of  Levantine  carriages  with  brilliant 
liveries,  of  long-necked  camels,  of  caparisoned  mules,  of 
young  donkeys,  of  Arabs  in  rags,  of  half-naked  negroes, 
of  officials  m  full-dress  with  their  guard  of  honour.  Should 
he  find  there,  where  the  road  ran  through  the  gardens  of 
palm-trees,  the  strange  and  colossal  architecture  of  the  Bey's 
palace,  its  barred  windows  with  closed  lattices,  its  marble 
gates,  its  balconies  in  carved  wood  painted  in  bright  col- 
ours?—  It  was  not  the  Bardo,  but  the  lovely  country  of 
Bordighera,  divided,  like  all  those  on  the  coast,  into  two 
parts — the  sea  town  lying  on  the  shore  ;  and  the  upper  town, 
joined  to  it  by  a  forest  of  motionless  palm-trees,  with  up- 
right stem  and  falling  crown — like  green  rockets,  springing 
into  the  blue  with  their  thousand  feathers. 

The  insupportable  heat,  the  overtired  horses,  forced  the 
traveller  to  stop  for  a  couple  of  hours  at  one  of  those  great 

396 


At  Bordighera 


hotels  which  line  the  road,  and  bring  every  November  into 
this  little  town,  so  marvellously  sheltered,  the  luxurious  life 
and  cosmopolitan  animation  of  an  aristocratic  wintering 
place.  But  at  this  time  of  year  there  was  no  one  in  the 
sea  town  of  Bordighera  but  fishermen,  invisible  at  this  hour. 
The  villas  and  hotels  seemed  dead,  their  blinds  and  shutters 
closed.  They  took  Paul  through  long,  cool,  and  silent  pas- 
sages to  a  great  drawing-room  facing  north,  which  seemed 
to  be  part  of  the  suites  let  for  the  season,  whose  doors  com- 
municated with  the  other  rooms.  White  curtains,  a  carpet, 
the  comfort  demanded  by  the  English  even  when  travel- 
ling, and  outside  the  windows,  which  the  hotel-keeper 
opened  wide  to  tempt  thp  traveller  to  a  longer  stay,  a  splen- 
did view  of  the  mountain.  An  astonishing  quiet  reigned  in 
this  great  deserted  inn,  with  neither  manager,  nor  cook,  nor 
waiters — the  whole  staff  coming  only  in  the  winter — and 
given  up  for  domestic  needs  to  a  local  spoil-sauce,  expert 
at  a  stoffato,  a  risotto;  also  to  two  stablemen,  who  clothed 
themselves  at  meal-time  with  the  dress-coat  and  white  tie  of 
office.  Happily,  de  Gery  was  only  going  to  remain  there 
for  an  hour  or  two,  to  rest  his  eyes  from  the  overpowering 
light,  his  head  from  the  dolorous  grip  of  the  sun. 

From  the  divan  where  he  lay,  the  admirable  landscape, 
diversified  with  light  and  trembling  olives,  woods  of  the 
darker  orange-trees  with  shining  leaves,  seemed  to  descend 
to  his  window  by  stages  of  different  greens,  where  scattered 
villas  shone  white,  and  among  them  that  of  Maurice  Trott, 
the  banker,  recognisable  by  its  capricious  architecture  and 
the  height  of  its  palms. 

The  Levantine  house,  whose  gardens  came  up  to  the 
windows  of  the  hotel,  had  sheltered  for  some  months  an 
artistic  celebrity,  the  sculptor  Brehat,  who  was  dying  of  con- 
sumption, and  owed  the  prolonging  of  his  existence  to  this 
princely  hospitality.  The  neighbourhood  of  this  dying 
celebrity — of  which  the  hotel-keeper  was  proud,  and  which 
he  would  have  liked  to  charge  in  the  bill — the  name  of 
Brehat,  which  de  Gery  had  so  often  heard  pronounced  with 
admiration  in  Felicia  Ruys's  studio,  brought  back  his 
thoughts  to  the  beautiful  face,  with  its  pure  lines,  which  he 

397 


The  Nabob 

had  last  seen  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  leaning  on  Mora's 
shoulder.  What  had  become  of  the  unfortunate  girl  when 
this  prop  had  failed  her?  Would  this  lesson  be  of  use  to 
her  in  the  future  ?  And,  by  a  strange  coincidence,  while  he 
was  thinking  thus  of  Felicia,  a  great  white  greyhound  was 
bounding  up  an  alley  of  green  trees  on  the  slopes  of  the 
neighbouring  garden.  It  was  like  Kadour — the  same  short 
hair,  the  same  mouth,  red,  fierce,  and  delicate.  Paul,  be- 
fore his  open  window,  was  assailed  in  a  moment  by  all  sorts 
of  visions,  sad  or  charming.  Perhaps  the  beauty  of  the 
scene  before  his  eyes  made  his  thoughts  wander.  Under 
the  orange-trees  and  lemon-trees  in  rows,  laden  with  their 
golden  fruit,  stretched  immense  fields  of  violets  in  regular 
and  packed  beds^  separated  by  little  irrigation  canals,  whose 
white  stone  cut  up  the  exuberant  verdure. 

An  exquisite  odour  of  violets  dried  in  the  sun  was  rising 
— a  hot  boudoir  scent,  enervating,  enfeebling,  which  called 
up  for  de  Gery  feminine  visions — Aline,  Felicia — permeating 
the  fairy-like  landscape,  in  this  blue-charged  atmosphere, 
this  heavenly  day,  which  one  might  have  called  the  perfume 
become  visible  of  so  many  open  flowers.  The  creaking  of 
a  door-  made  him  open  his  eyes.  Some  one  had  just  gone 
into  the  next  room.  He  heard  the  rustle  of  a  dress  against 
the  thin  partition,  a  leaf  turned  in  a  book  which  could  not 
be  very  interesting,  for  a  long  sigh  turning  into  a  yawn  made 
him  start.  Was  he  still  sleeping,  dreaming?  Had  he  not 
heard  the  cry  of  the  "  jackal  in  the  desert,"  so  much  in  keep- 
ing with  the  burning  temperature  out  of  doors?  No — 
nothing  more.  He  fell  asleep  again,  and  this  time  all  the 
confused  images  which  pursued  him  fixed  themselves  in  a 
dream — a  very  pleasant  dream. 

He  was  on  his  honeymoon  with  Aline.  She  was  a  deli- 
cious wife,  her  clear  eyes  full  of  love  and  faith,, which  only 
knew,  only  looked  at  him.  In  this  very  room,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  partition,  she  was  sitting  in  white  morning  dress, 
which  smelt  of  violets  and  of  the  fine  lace  of  her  trousseau. 
They  were  having  breakfast — one  of  those  solitary  break- 
fasts of  a  honeymoon,  served  in  their  bedroom,  opposite  the 
blue  sea,  and  the  clear  sky,  which  tinge  with  azure  the  glass 

398 


At  Bordighera 


in  which  one  drinks,  the  eyes  where  one  sees  one's  self,  the 
future — hte — the  distant  horizon.  Oh!  how  good  it  was; 
what  a  divine  youth-giving  Hght ;  how  happy  they  were ! 

And  all  at  once,  in  the  delight  of  their  kisses.  Aline  be- 
came sad.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  said  to  him: 
"  Felicia  is  there.  You  will  love  me  no  longer."  And  he 
laughed,  "  Felicia  here?  What  an  idea!  "  "  Yes,  yes;  she 
is  there."  Trembling  she  pointed  to  the  next  room,  from 
which  came  angry  barks,  and  the  voice  of  Felicia :  "  Here, 
Kadour!  Here,  Kadour!"  the  low,  concentrated,  furious 
voice  of  some  one  who  is  hiding  and  suddenly  discovered. 

Wide  awake,  the  lover,  disenchanted,  found  himself  in 
his  empty  room,  before  an  empty  table,  his  dream  fled 
through  the  window  to  the  great  hillside.  But  he  heard 
very  distinctly  in  the  next  room  the  bark  of  a  dog,  and 
hurried  knocks  on  the  door. 

"  Open  the  door !     It  is  I — it  is  Jenkins." 

Paul  sat  up  on  his  divan,  stupefied.  Jenkins  here  ?  How 
was  that?  To  whom  was  he  speaking?  What  voice  was 
going  to  answer  him?  No  one  answered.  A  light  step 
went  to  the  door,  and  the  lock  creaked  nervously. 

"  Here  you  are  at  last,"  said  the  Irishman,  entering. 

And  truly  if  he  had  not  taken  care  to  announce  himself, 
Paul  would  never  have  taken  this  brutal,  violent,  hoarse 
voice  heard  through  the  partition  for  the  doctor's  with  his 
sugary  manners. 

"  At  last  I  have  found  you  after  a  week  of  searching,  of 
mad  rushing  from  Genoa  to  Nice,  from  Nice  to  Genoa.  I 
knew  that  you  had  not  gone,  because  the  yacht  was  in  the 
harbour,  and  I  was  going  to  inspect  all  the  inns  on  the 
coast,  when  I  remembered  Brehat.  I  thought  that  you 
would  want  to  see  him  in  passing.  I  have  just  come  from 
him.    It  was  he  who  told  me  you  were  here." 

But  to  whom  was  he  speaking?  ^^'ho  was  so  singularly 
obstinate?  At  last  a  beautiful,  sad  voice,  which  Paul  well 
knew,  made  the  hot  afternoon  air  vibrate. 

"Well,  yes,  Jenkins,  here  I  am.    What  is  the  matter?" 

Through  the  wall  Paul  could  see  the  disdainful  mouth, 
turned  down  with  disgust. 

399 


The  Nabob 

"  I  have  come  to  prevent  you  from  going — from  doing  > 
this  foolish  thing." 

"  What  foohsh  thing?  I  have  some  work  at  Tunis.  I 
must  go  there." 

"  But  you  don't  think,  my  dear  child,  that " 

"  Oh,  enough  of  your  fatherly  airs,  Jenkins.  We  know 
what  lies  underneath  it.  Speak  to  me  as  you  did  just  now. 
I  prefer  the  bull-dog  to  the  spaniel.     I  fear  it  less." 

"  Well,  I  tell  you  that  you  must  be  mad  to  go  over  there 
alone,  young  and  beautiful  as  you  are." 

"  And  am  I  not  always  alone  ?  Would  you  like  me  to 
take  Constance,  at  her  age  ?  " 

"Or  me?" 

"  You !  "  She  pronounced  the  word  with  an  ironical 
laugh.  "  And  what  about  Paris  ?  And  your  patients 
— deprive  society  of  its  Cagliostro?  Never,  on  any  ac- 
count." 

"  I  have,  however,  made  up  my  mind  to  follow  you 
wherever  you  go,"  said  Jenkins  resolutely. 

There  was  an  instant  of  silence.  Paul  asked  himself  if  it 
was  worthy  of  him  to  listen  to  this  conversation  which  was 
full  of  terrible  revelations.  But  in  spite  of  his  fatigue  an 
invincible  curiosity  nailed  him  to  the  spot.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  the  enigma  which  had  so  long  been  perplexing  and 
troubling  him  was  going  to  be  solved  at  last,  to  show  the 
woman,  sad  or  perverse,  concealed  by  the  fashionable  artist. 
He  remained  there,  still  holding  his  breath,  needlessly,  how- 
ever; for  the  two,  believing  themselves  to  be  alone  in  the 
hotel,  let  their  passions  and  their  voices  rise  without  con- 
straint. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  of  me  ?  " 

"  I  want  you." 

"  Jenkins ! " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know ;  you  have  forbidden  me  to  say  such 
words  before  you,  but  other  men  than  I  have  said  them, 
and  nearer  still." 

"  And  if  it  were  so,  wretch !  If  I  have  not  been  able  to 
protect  myself  from  disgust  and  boredom,  if  I  have  lost  my 
pride,  is  it  for  you  to  say  a  word  ?    As  if  you  were  not  the 

400 


At  Bordighera 


cause  of  it ;  as  if  you  had  not  forever  saddened  and  darkened 
my  life  for  me  !  " 

And  these  burning  and  rapid  words  revealed  to  the  ter- 
rified Paul  de  Gery  the  horrible  meaning  of  this  apparently 
atti'Ctionate  guardianship,  against  which  the  mind,  the 
thought,  the  dreams  of  the  young  girl  had  had  to  struggle 
£o  long,  and  which  had  left  her  the  incurable  sadness  of  pre- 
cocious regret,  the  heart-break  of  a  life  hardly  begun. 

"  I  loved  you  !  I  love  you  still !  Passion  excuses  every- 
thing," answered  Jenkins  in  a  hollow  voice. 

"  Love  me,  then,  if  that  amuses  you.  As  for  me,  I 
hate  you  not  only  for  the  wrong  you  have  done  me,  all  the 
beliefs  and  energy  you  have  killed  in  me,  but  because  you 
represent  what  is  most  execrable,  most  hideous  under  the 
sun — hypocrisy  and  lies.  This  society  masquerade,  this 
heap  of  falsity,  of  grimaces,  of  cowardly  and  unclean  con- 
ventions have  sickened  me  to  such  an  extent,  that  I  am  run- 
ning away,  exiling  myself  so  as  to  see  them  no  longer; 
rather  than  them  I  would  have  the  prison,  the  sewer,  the 
streets.  And  yet  it  is  your  deceit,  O  sublime  Jenkins,  which 
horrifies  me  most.  You  have  mingled  our  French  hypoc- 
risy, all  smiles  and  politeness,  with  your  large  English 
shakes  of  the  hand,  with  your  cordial  and  demonstrative 
loyalty.  Tiiey  have  all  been  caught  by  it.  They  said,  '  The 
good  Jenkins ;  the  worthy,  honest  Jenkins.'  But  I — I  knew 
you,  and  in  spite  of  your  fine  motto  on  the  envelopes  of 
your  letters,  on  your  seal,  your  sleeve-links,  your  hat- 
bands, the  doors  of  your  carriage,  I,  always  saw  the  rascal 
you  are." 

Her  voice  hissed  through  her  teeth,  clinched  by  an  in- 
credible ferocity  of  expression,  and  Paul  expected  somv 
furious  revolt  of  Jenkins  under  so  many  insults.  But  thi 
hate  and  contempt  of  the  woman  he  loved  must  have  give  . 
him  more  sorrow  than  anger,  for  he  answered  softly,  ir  > 
tone  of  wounded  gentleness  : 

"  Oh !  you  are  cruel.  If  you  knew  the  pain  you  are 
giving  me !  Hypocrite !  yes,  it  is  true ;  but  I  was  not  born 
like  that.  One  is  forced  into  it  by  the  difficulties  of  life. 
When  one  has  the  wind  against  one,  and  wishes  to  ad- 

401 


The  Nabob 

vance,  one  tacks.  I  have  tacked.  Lay  the  blame  on  my 
miserable  beginnings,  my  false  entry  into  existence,  and 
agree  at  least  that  one  thing  in  me  has  never  lied — my  pas- 
sion !  Nothing  has  been  able  to  kill  it — neither  your  dis- 
dain, nor  your  abuse,  nor  all  that  I  have  read  in  your  eyes, 
which  for  so  many  years  have  not  once  smiled  at  me.  It 
is  still  my  passion  which  gives  me  the  strength,  even  afte/ 
what  I  have  just  heard,  to  tell  you  why  I  am  here.  Listen ! 
You  told  me  once  that  you  wanted  a  husband — some  one 
who  would  watch  over  you  during  your  work,  who  would 
take  over  some  of  the  duties  of  the  poor  Crenmitz.  Those 
were  your  own  words,  which  wounded  me  then  because  I 
was  not  free.  Now  all  is  changed.  Will  you  marry  me, 
Felicia?" 

"  And  your  wife  ?  "  cried  the  young  girl,  while  Paul  was 
asking  himself  the  same  question. 

"  My  wife  is  dead." 

"  Dead  ?    Mme.  Jenkins  ?    Is  it  true  ?  " 

"  You  never  knew  her  of  whom  I  speak.  The  other  was 
not  my  wife.  When  I  met  her  I  was  already  married  in 
Ireland — years  before.  A  horrible  forced  marriage.  My 
dear,  when  I  was  twenty-five  I  was  confronted  with  this 
alternative :  a  debtor's  prison  or  Miss  Strang,  an  ugly  and 
gouty  old  maid,  sister  of  the  usurer  who  had  lent  me  five 
hundred  pounds  to  pay  for  my  medical  studies.  I  preferreti 
the  prison ;  but  after  weeks  and  months  I  came  to  the  end 
of  my  courage,  and  I  married  Miss  Strang,  who  brought  me 
for  dowry — my  note  of  hand.  You  can  guess  what  my  life 
was  between  these  two  monsters  who  adored  each  other. 
A  jealous,  impotent  wife.  The  brother  spied  on  me,  follow- 
ing me  everywhere.  I  should  have  gone  away,  but  one 
thing  kept  me  there.  The  usurer  was  said  to  be  very  rich. 
I  wished  to  have  some  return  for  my  cowardice.  You  see, 
I  tell  you  all.  Come  now,  I  have  been  punished.  Old 
Strang  died  insolvent ;  he  used  to  gamble,  had  ruined  himself 
without  saying  a  word.  Then  I  put  my  wife  and  her  rheu- 
matism in  a  hospital,  and  came  to  France.  I  had  to  begin 
existence  again,  more  struggles  and  misery.  But  I  had  ex- 
perience on  my  side,  hatred  and  contempt  for  men,  and  my 

402 


At  Bordighera 


newly  conquered  liberty,  for  I  did  not  dream  that  the 
horrible  weight  of  this  cursed  vmion  was  going  to  hinder 
mv  getting  on,  at  that  distance.  Happily,  it  is  over — I  am 
free." 

"  Yes,  Jenkins,  free.  But  why  do  you  not  make  your 
wife  the  poor  creature  who  has  shared  your  life  so  long,  so 
humble  and*devoted  as  she  is?" 

"  Oh !  "  said  he,  with  an  outburst  of  sincerity,  "  between 
my  two  prisons  I  would  prefer  the  other,  where  I  could  be 
frankly  indifferent.  But  the  atrocious  comedy  of  conjugal 
love,  of  unwearying  happiness,  when  for  so  long  I  had  loved 
you  and  thought  of  you  alone !  There  is  not  such  a  torture 
on  earth.  If  I  can  guess,  the  poor  woman  must  have  ut- 
tered a  cry  of  relief  and  happiness  at  the  separation.  It  is  the 
only  adieu  I  hoped  for  from  hen" 

"  But  who  forced  you  to  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"  Paris,  society,  the  world.  Married  by  its  opinion,  we 
were  held  by  it." 

"  And  now  you  are  held  no  longer  ?  " 

"  Now  something  comes  before  all — it  is  the  idea  of 
losing  you,  of  seeing  you  no  longer.  Oh !  when  I  learned  of 
your  flight,  when  I  saw  the  bill  over  your  door  TO  LET, 
I  felt  sure  that  it  was  all  up  with  poses  and  grimaces,  that 
I  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  set  out,  to  run  quickly  after 
my  happiness,  which  you  were  taking  away.  You  were 
leaving  Paris — I  have  left  it.  Everything  of  yours  was  being 
sold  ;  everything  of  mine  will  be  sold." 

"  And  she  ?  "  said  Felicia  trembling.  "  She,  the  irre- 
proachable companion,  the  honest  woman  whom  no  one 
has  ever  suspected,  where  wall  she  go?  What  will  she  do? 
And  it  is  her  place  you  have  just  ofifered  me.  A  stolen  place, 
think  what  a  hell !  Well,  and  your  motto,  good  Jenkins, 
virtuous  Jenkins,  what  shall  we  do  with  it?  'Le  bien  sans 
espcrance'  eh ! '" 

At  this  sneer,  cutting  his  face  like  a  whip,  the  wretch 
answered  panting: 

"  That  will  do !  Do  not  sneer  at  me  so.  It  is  too  hor- 
rible now.  Does  it  not  touch  you,  then,  to  be  loved  as  I 
love  you  in  sacrificing  everything  to  you — fortune,  honour, 

403 


The    Nabob 

respect?  See,  look  at  me.  I  have  snatched  my  mask  off 
for  you,  I  have  snatched  it  off  before  all.  And  now,  see, 
here  is  the  hypocrite." 

He  heard  the  muffled  noise  of  two  knees  falling  on  the 
floor.  And  stammering,  distracted  with  love,  weak  before 
her,  he  begged  her  to  consent  to  this  marriage,  to  give  him 
the  right  to  follow  her  everywhere,  to  defend  her.  Then  the 
words  failed  him,  stifled  in  a  passionate  sob,  so  deep,  so 
lacerating  that  it  should  have  touched  any  heart,  above  all 
among  this  splendid  impassible  scenery  in  this  perfumed 
heat.  But  Felicia  was  not  touched.  "Let  us  have  done, 
Jenkins,"  said  she  brusquely.  "What  you  ask  is  impossible. 
We  have  nothing  to  hide  from  each  other,  and  after  your 
confidences  just  now,  I  wish  to  make  one  to  you,  which 
humbles  my  pride,  but  your  degradation  makes  you  worthy. 
I  was  Mora's  mistress." 

Paul  knew  this.  And  yet  it  was  so  sad  to  hear  this  beau- 
tiful, pure  voice  laden  with  such  a  confession,  in  the  midst 
of  the  intoxicating  air,  that  he  felt  his  heart  contract. 

"I  knew  it,"  answered  Jenkins  in  a  low  voice,  "I  have 
the  letters  you  wrote  to  him." 

"My  letters?" 

"Oh,  I  will  give  them  to  you — here.  I  know  them  by 
heart.  I  have  read  and  reread  them.  It  is  that  which  hurts 
one,  when  one  loves.  But  I  have  suffered  other  tortures. 
When  I  think  that  it  was  I — "  He  stopped  himself.  He 
choked.  "I  who  had  to  furnish  fuel  for  your  flames,  warm 
this  frozen  lover,  send  him  to  you  ardent  and  young —  Ah ! 
he  has  devoured  my  pearls — I  might  refuse  over  and  over 
again,  he  was  always  taking  them.  At  last  I  was  mad. 
You  wish  to  burn,  wretched  woman.    Well,  burn,  then !" 

Paul  rose  to  his  feet  in  terror.  Was  he  going  to  hear 
the  confession  of  a  crime  ?  But  the  shame  of  hearing  more 
was  not  inflicted  on  him.  A  violent  knocking,  this  time  on 
his  own  door,  warned  him  that  his  calesino  was  ready. 

"Is  the  French  gentleman  ready?" 

In  the  next  room  there  was  silence,  then  a  whisper. — 
There  had  been  some  one  near  who  had  heard  them. — Paul 

404 


At  Bordighera 


de  Ger>'  hurried  downstairs.    He  must  get  out  of  this  room 
to  escape  the  weight  of  so  much  infamy. 

As  the  post-chaise  swayed,  he  saw  among  the  common 
white  curtains,  which  float  at  all  the  windows  in  the  soyth, 
a  pale  figure  with  the  hair  of  a  goddess,  and  great  burning 
eyes  fixed  on  him.  But  a  glance  at  Aline's  portrait  quickly 
dispelled  this  disturbing  vision,  and  forever  cured  of  his  old 
love,  he  travelled  until  evening  through  the  magic  landscape 
with  the  lovely  bride  of  the  dejeuner,  who  carried  in  the  folds 
of  her  modest  robe  and  mantle  all  the  violets  of  Bordighera. 


405 


XXV 

THE   FIRST   NIGHT   OF   "  REVOLT  " 

"  Take  your  places  for  the  first  act !  " 

The  cry  of  the  stage-manager,  standing  with  his  hand 
raised  to  his  mouth  to  form  a  trumpet,  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase  behind  the  scenes,  echoes  under  the  roof,  rises 
and  rolls  along,  to  be  lost  in  the  depths  of  corridors  full 
of  the  noise  of  doors  banging,  of  hasty  steps,  of  desper- 
ate calls  to  the  coiffeur  and  the  dressers ;  while  there  appear 
one  by  one  on  the  landings  of  the  various  floors,  slow 
and  majestic,  without  moving  their  heads  for  fear  of  dis- 
turbing the  least  detail  of  their  make-up,  all  the  personages 
of  the  first  act  of  Revolt,  in  elegant  modern  ball  costumes, 
with  the  creaking  of  new  shoes,  the  silken  rustle  of  the 
trains,  the  jingling  of  rich  bracelets  pushed  up  the  arm 
while  gloves  are  being  buttoned.  All  these  people  seem 
excited,  nervous,  pale  beneath  their  paint,  and  under  the 
skilfully  prepared  satin-like  surface  of  the  shoulders,  trem- 
ors flutter  like  shadows.  Dry-mouthed,  they  speak  little. 
The  least  nervous,  while  afifecting  to  smile,  have  in  their 
eyes  and  voice  the  hesitation  that  marks  an  absent  mind — 
that  appr-ehension  of  the  battle  behind  the  foot-lights  which 
is  ever  one  of  the  most  powerful  attractions  of  the  comedian's 
art,  its  piquancy,  its  freshness. 

The  stage  is  encumbered  by  the  passage  to  and  fro  of 
machinists  and  scene-shifters  hastening  about,  running  into 
one  another  in  the  dim,  pallid  light  falling  from  above,  which 
will  give  place  directly,  as  soon  as  the  curtain  rises,  to  the 
dazzling  of  the  foot-lights.  Cardailhac  is  there  in  his  dress- 
coat  and  white  tie,  his  opera  hat  on  one  side,  giving  a  final 
glance  to  the  arrangement  of  the  scenery,  hurrying  the  work- 
men, complimenting  the  ingemie  who  is  waiting  dressed  and 

406 


The  First  Night  of  "Revolt" 

ready,  beaming,  humming-  an  air,  looking  superb.  To  see 
him  no  one  would  ever  guess  the  terrible  worries  which  dis- 
tract him.  He  is  compromised  by  the  fall  of  the  Nabob — 
which  entails  the  loss  of  his  directorate — and  is  risking  his 
all  on  the  piece  of  this  evening,  obliged,  if  it  be  not  a  suc- 
cess, to  leave  the  cost  of  this  marvellous  scenen.',  these 
stufifs  at  a  hundred  francs  the  yard,  unpaid.  It  is  a  fourth 
bankruptcy  that  stares  him  in  the  face.  But,  bah !  our 
manager  is  confident.  Success,  like  all  the  monsters  that 
feed  on  men,  loves  youth ;  and  this  unknown  author,  whose 
name  is  appearing  for  the  first  time  on  a  theatre  bill,  flatters 
the  gambler's  superstitions. 

Andre  Maranne  feels  less  confident.  As  the  hour  for 
the  production  of  the  piece  approaches  he  loses  faith  in  his 
work,  terrified  by  the  sight  of  the  house,  at  which  he  looks 
through  the  hole  in  the  curtain  as  through  the  narrow  lens 
of  a  stereoscope. 

A  splendid  house,  crammed  to  the  roof,  notwithstand- 
ing the  late  period  of  the  spring  and  the  fashionable  taste 
for  early  departure  to  the  country ;  a  house  that  Cardailhac, 
a  declared  enemy  of  nature  and  the  country,  endeavouring 
always  to  keep  Parisians  in  Paris  till  the  latest  possible  date, 
has  succeeded  in  crowding  and  making  as  brilliant  as  in 
midwinter.  Fifteen  hundred  heads  are  swarming  beneath 
the  great  central  chandelier,  erect — bent  forward — turning 
round — questioning  amid  a  great  play  of  shadows  and  reflec- 
tions ;  some  massed  in  the  obscure  corners  of  the  floor,  others 
in  a  bright  light  reflected  through  the  open  doors  of  the 
boxes  from  the  white  walls  of  the  corridor;  the  first-night 
public  which  is  always  the  same,  that  brigand-like  tout 
Paris  which  goes  everywhere,  carrying  those  envied  places 
by  storm  when  a  favour  or  a  claim  by  right  of  some  official 
position  fails  to  secure  them. 

In  the  stalls  are  low-cut  waistcoats,  clubmen,  shining 
bald  heads,  wide  partings  in  scanty  hair,  light-coloured 
gloves,  big  opera-glasses  raised  and  directed  towards  various 
points.  In  the  galleries  a  mixture  of  different  social  sets  and 
all  kinds  of  dress,  all  the  people  well  known  as  figuring  at 
this  kind  of  solemnity,  and  the  embarrassing  promiscuity 

407 


The  Nabob 

which  places  the  modest  smile  of  the  virtuous  woman  along- 
side of  the  black-ringed  eyes,  the  vermilion-painted  lips  of 
her  who  belongs  to  another  category.  White  hats,  pink 
hats,  diamonds  and  paint.  Above,  the  boxes  present  the 
same  confusion ;  actresses  and  women  of  the  demi-monde, 
ministers,  ambassadors,  famous  authors,  critics — these  last 
wearing  a  grave  air  and  frowning  brow,  sitting  crosswise  in 
their  fautciiils  with  the  impassive  haughtiness  of  judges 
whom  nothing  can  corrupt.  The  boxes  near  the  stage 
especially  stand  out  in  the  general  picture  brilliantly  lighted, 
occupied  by  celebrities  of  the  financial  world,  the  women 
decollete  and  with  bare  arms,  glittering  with  jewels  like 
the  Queen  of  Sheba  on  her  visit  to  the  King  of  Judea. 
But  on  the  left,  one  of  these  large  boxes,  entirely  empty, 
attracts  attention  by  reason  of  its  curious  decoration,  lighted 
from  the  back  by  a  Moorish  lantern.  Over  the  whole  assem- 
bly is  an  impalpable  and  floating  dust,  the  flickering  of  the 
gas,  that  odour  that  mingles  with  all  the  pleasures  of  Paris, 
its  little  sputterings,  sharp  and  quick  like  the  breaths  drawn 
by  a  consumptive,  accompanying  the  movement  of  opened 
fans.  And  then,  too,  ennui,  a  gloomy  ennui,  the  ennui  of 
seeing  the  same  faces  always  in  the  same  places,  with  tlfeir 
defects  or  their  poses,  that  uniformity  of  fashionable  gather- 
ings which  ends  by  establishing  in  Paris  each  winter  a 
spiteful  and  gossiping  provincialism  more  petty  than  that 
of  the  provinces  themselves. 

Maranne  observed  this  ill-humour,  this  lassitude  of  the 
public,  and  thinking  of  all  the  changes  which  the  success 
of  his  play  might  bring  about  in  his  simple  life,  he  asked 
himself,  full  of  a  great  anxiety,  what  he  could  do  to  bring 
his  ideas  home  to  those  thousands  of  people,  to  pluck  them 
away  from  their  preoccupation,  and  to  send  through  this 
crowd  a  single  current  which  should  draw  to  himself  those 
absent  glances,  those  minds  of  every  different  calibre,  so  dif- 
ficult to  move  to  unison.  Instinctively  his  eyes  sought 
friendly  faces,  a  box  facing  the  stage  occupied  by  the  Joy- 
euse  family ;  Elise  and  the  younger  girls  seated  in  the  front, 
Aline  and  the  father  in  the  row  behind — a  charming  family 
group,  like  a  bouquet  wet  with  dew  amid  a  display  of  arti- 

408 


The  First  Night  of  *' Revolt" 

ficial  flowers.  And  while  all  Paris  was  disdainfully  asking, 
*'  Who  are  those  people  there  ?  "  the  poet  intrusted  his  fate 
to  those  little  fairy  hands,  new-gloved  for  the  occasion,  which 
very  soon  would  boldly  give  the  signal  for  applause. 

The  curtain  is  going  up !  Maranne  has  barely  time 
to  spring  into  the  wings ;  and  suddenly  he  hears  as  from 
far,  very  far  away,  the  first  words  of  his  play,  which  rise, 
like  a  flight  of  timid  birds,  into  the  silence  and  immensity 
of  the  theatre.  A  terrible  moment.  Where  should  he  go? 
What  should  he  do  ?  Remain  there  leaning  against  a  wing, 
with  straining  ear  and  beating  heart?  Encourage  the  actors 
when  he  himself  stood  in  so  much  need  of  encouragement? 
He  prefers  rather  to  look  the  peril  in  the  face ;  and  by  the 
little  door  communicating  with  the  corridor  behind  the 
boxes  he  slips  out  to  a  comer  box,  which  he  orders  to  be 
opened  for  him  softly.  "  Sh !  It  is  I."  Some  one  is  seated 
in  the  shadow — a  woman,  she  whom  all  Paris  knows  and 
who  is  hiding  herself  from  the  public  gaze.  Andre  sits 
down  by  her  side,  and  so,  close  to  one  another,  mother  and 
son  tremblingly  watch  the  progress  of  the  play. 

It  astonished  the  audience  at  first.  This  Theatre  des 
Nouveautes,  situated  in  the  very  heart  of  the  boulevard, 
where  its  portico  glitters  all  illuminated  among  the  great 
restaurants  of  the  smart  clubs;  this  theatre,  to  which  people 
were  accustomed  to  come  in  parties  after  a  luxurious  dinner 
to  listen  until  supper-time  to  an  act  or  two  of  some  sug- 
gestive piece,  had  become  in  the  hands  of  its  clever  manager 
the  most  fashionable  of  all  Parisian  entertainments,  without 
any  very  precise  character  of  its  own,  and  partaking  some- 
thing of  all,  from  the  fairy-operetta  which  exhibits  undressed 
women,  to  the  serious  modern  drama.  Cardailhac  was  espe- 
cially anxious  to  justify  his  title  of  "  Manager  of  the  Nou- 
veautes," and,  since  the  Nabob's  millions  had  been  at  the 
back  of  the  undertaking,  had  made  a  point  of  preparing 
for  the  boulevardiers  the  most  dazzling  surprises.  That  of 
this  evening  surpassed  them  all;  the  piece  was  in  verse — 
and  moral. 

A  moral  play ! 

The  old  rogue  had  realized  that  the  moment  had  arrived 

409 


The  Nabob 

to  try  that  effect,  and  he  was  trying  it.  After  the  aston- 
ishment of  the  first  minutes,  a  few  disappointed  exclama- 
tions here  and  there  in  the  boxes,  "  Why,  it  is  in  verse !  " 
the  house  began  to  feel  the  charm  of  this  invigorating  and 
healthy  piece,  as  if  there  had  been  sprinkled  on  it,  in  its 
rarefied  atmosphere,  some  fresh  and  pungent  essence,  an 
elixir  of  life  perfumed  with  thyme  from  the  hillside. 

"  Ah  !  this  is  nice — it  is  restful." 

Such  was  the  general  sense,  a  thrill  of  ease,  a  spasm  of 
pleasure  accompanying  each  line.  That  fat  old  Hemer- 
lingue  found  it  restful,  pufhng  in  his  stage-box  on  the 
ground  floor  as  in  a  trough  of  cerise  satin.  It  was  restful 
also  to  that  tall  Suzanne  Bloch,  her  hair  dressed  in  the  an- 
tique way,  ringlets  flowing  over  a  diadem  of  gold ;  and  near 
her,  Amy  Ferat,  all  in  white  like  a  bride  and  with  sprigs  of 
orange-blossom  in  her  flufify  hair,  it  was  restful  to  her  also, 
you  may  be  sure. 

A  crowd  of  demi-mondaines  were  present,  some  very 
fat,  with  a  dirty  greasiness  acquired  in  a  hundred  seraglios, 
three  chins,  and  an  air  of  stupidity ;  others  absolutely  green 
in  spite  of  their  paint,  as  if  they  iiad  been  dipped  in  a  bath 
of  that  arsenate  of  copper  which  is  called  in  the  shops  "  Paris 
green."  These  were  wrinkled,  faded  to  such  a  degree  that 
they  hid  in  the  back  of  their  boxes,  only  allowing  a  portion 
of  a  white  arm  to  be  seen,  a  rounded  shoulder  protruding. 
Then  there  were  young  men  about  town,  flabby  and  without 
backbone,  those  who  at  that  time  used  to  be  called  petits 
creves,  creatures  worn  out  by  dissipation,  with  stooping 
necks  and  drooping  lips,  incapable  of  standing  erect  or  of 
articulating  a  single  word  perfectly.  And  all  these  people 
exclaimed  with  one  accord :  "  This  is  nice — it  is  restful." 
The  handsome  Moessard  murmured  it  like  a  refrain  be- 
neath his  little  fair  mustache,  while  his  queen  in  the  stage- 
box  translated  it  into  the  barbarism  of  her  foreign  tongue. 
Positively  they  found  it  restful.  They  did  not  say  after 
what — after  what  heart-breaking  labour,  after  what  forced. 
idle  and  useless  task. 

All  these  friendly  murmurs,  united  and  mingled,  began 
to  give  to  the  house  an  eventful  appearance.    Success  was 

410 


The  First  Night  of  ^< Revolt" 

felt  in  the  air,  faces  became  serene  again,  the  women  seemed 
the  more  beautiful  for  reflecting  enthusiasm,  for  being  moved 
to  glances  that  were  as  exciting  as  applause.  Andre,  at  his 
mother's  side,  thrilled  with  an  unknown  pleasure,  with  that 
proud  delight  which  a  man  feels  when  he  stirs  the  multitude, 
be  he  only  a  singer  in  a  suburban  back-yard,  with  a  patri- 
otic refrain  and  two  pathetic  notes  in  his  voice.  Suddenly  the 
whisperings  redoubled,  were  transformed  into  a  tumult. 
People  were  chuckling  and  fidgeting  with  excitement 
What  had  happened  ?  Some  accident  on  the  stage  ?  Andre, 
leaning  terrified  towards  the  actors  as  astonished  as  him- 
self, saw  every  opera-glass  turned  towards  the  big  stage-box 
which  had  remained  empty  until  then,  and  which  some  one 
had  just  entered,  who  sat  down  immediately  with  both  his 
elbows  on  the  velvet  ledge,  and  with  his  opera-glass  drawn 
from  its  case,  taking  his  place  in  gloomy  solitude. 

In  ten  days  the  Nabob  had  aged  twenty  years.  Violent 
southern  natures  like  his,  if  they  are  rich  in  enthusiasms, 
become  also  more  utterly  prostrate  than  others.  Since  his 
unseating  the  unfortunate  man  had  shut  himself  up  in  his 
bedroom,  with  drawn  curtains,  no  longer  wishing  even  to 
see  the  light  of  day  nor  to  cross  over  the  threshold  beyond 
which  life  was  waiting  for  him,  with  the  engagements  he 
had  undertaken,  the  promises  he  had  made,  a  mass  of  pro- 
tested bills  and  writs.  The  Levantine,  gone  oflf  to  some  spa 
accompanied  by  her  masseur  and  her  negress,  was  totally 
indifferent  to  the  ruin  of  the  establishment ;  Bompain — the 
man  in  the  fez — in  frightened  bewilderment  amid  the  de- 
mands for  money,  not  knowing  how  to  approach  his  ill- 
starred  master,  who  persistently  kept  his  bed  and  turned  his 
face  to  the  wall  as  soon  as  business  matters  were  mentioned. 
His  old  mother  alone  remained  behind  to  face  the  disaster, 
with  the  knowledge  born  of  her  narrow  and  straitened  ex- 
perience as  a  village  woman,  who  knows  what  a  stamped 
document — a  signature — is,  and  thinks  honour  is  the  great- 
est and  best  thing  in  this  world.  Her  peasant's  cap  made 
its  appearance  on  every  floor  of  the  mansion,  examining 
bills,  reforming  the  domestic  arrangements,  and  fearing 
neither  outcries  nor  humiliation.     At  all  hours  the  good 

411  Vol.  18— S 


The  Nabob 

woman  might  be  seen  striding  about  the  Place  Vendome, 
gesticulating,  talking  to  herself,  and  saying  aloud :  "  Te,  I 
will  go  and  see  the  bailiff."  And  never  did  she  consult  her 
son  about  anything  save  when  it  was  indispensable,  and  then 
only  in  a  few  discreet  words,  while  avoiding  even  a  glance  at 
him.  To  rouse  Jansoulet  from  his  torpor  it  had  required 
de  Gery's  telegram,  dated  from  Marseilles,  announcing  that 
he  was  on  his  way  back,  bringing  ten  million  francs.  Ten 
millions ! — that  is  to  say,  bankruptcy  averted,  the  possibility 
of  recovering  his  position — of  starting  life  afresh.  And  be- 
hold our  southerner  rebounding  from  the  depth  of  his  fall, 
intoxicated  with  joy,  and  full  of  hope.  He  ordered  the  win- 
dows to  be  opened  and  newspapers  to  be  brought  to  him. 
What  a  magnificent  opportunity  was  this  first  night  of  Revolt 
to  show  himself  to  the  Parisians,  who  were  believing  him  to 
have  gone  under,  to  enter  the  great  whirlpool  once  more 
through  the  swing  door  of  his  box  at  the  Nouveautes !  His 
mother,  warned  by  some  instinct,  did  indeed  try  to  hold  him 
back.  Paris  now  terrified  her.  She  would  have  liked  to 
carry  oflf  her  child  to  some  unknown  corner  of  the  Midi, 
to  nurse  him  along  with  his  elder  brother — stricken  down 
both  of  them  by  the  great  city.  But  he  was  the  master. 
Resistance  was  impossible  to  that  will  of  a  man  spoiled  by 
wealth.  She  helped  him  to  dress  for  the  occasion,  "  made 
him  look  nice,"  as  she  said  laughing,  and  watched  him  not 
without  a  certain  pride  as  he  departed,  dignified,  full  of  new 
life,  having  almost  got  over  the  prostration  of  the  preceding 
days. 

After  his  arrival  at  the  theatre,  Jansoulet  quickly  per- 
ceived the  commotion  which  his  presence  caused  in  the 
house.  Accustomed  to  similar  curious  ovations,  he  ac- 
knowledged them  ordinarily  without  the  least  embarrasb- 
ment,  with  a  frank  display  of  his  wide  and  good-natured 
smile;  but  this  time  the  manifestation  was  hostile,  almost 
indignant. 

"  What !    It  is  he  ?  " 

"  There  he  is." 

"  What  impudence  !  " 

Such  exclamations  from  the  stalls  confusedly  rose  among 

412 


The  First  Night  of  "Revolt" 

many  others.  The  retirement  in  which  he  had  taken  refuge 
for  some  days  past  had  left  him  in  ignorance  of  the  pubHc 
exasperation,  of  the  homihes,  the  statements  broadcast  in 
the  newspapers,  with  the  corrupting  influence  of  his  w^ealth 
as  their  text — articles  written  for  effect,  hypocritical  phrase- 
ology by  the  aid  of  which  opinion  avenges  itself  from  time  to 
time  on  the  innocent  for  all  its  own  concessions  to  the  guilty. 
It  was  a  terribly  embarrassing  exhibition,  which  gave  him  at 
first  more  sorrow  than  anger.  Deeply  moved,  he  hid  his 
emotion  behind  his  opera-glass,  fixing  his  attention  on  the 
least  details  of  the  stage  arrangements,  giving  a  three-quar- 
ters view  of  his  back  to  the  house,  but  unable  to  escape  the 
scandalous  observation  of  which  he  was  the  victim  and  which 
made  his  ears  buzz,  his  temples  beat,  the  dulled  lenses  of  his 
opera-glass  become  full  of  those  whirling  multi-coloured 
circles  which  are  the  first  symptom  of  brain  disorder. 

When  the  curtain  fell  at  the  end  of  the  first  act  He  re- 
mained motionless,  in  the  same  attitude  of  embarrassment ; 
the  whisperings,  now  more  distinct  when  they  were  no 
longer  held  in  check  by  the  dialogue  on  the  stage,  the  per- 
tinacity of  certain  inquisitive  people  changing  their  places 
in  order  to  get  a  better  view  of  him,  obliged  him  to  leave 
his  box  and  to  beat  a  hurried  retreat  into  the  corridors,  like 
a  wild  beast  escaping  across  a  circus  from  the  arena.  Be- 
neath the  low  ceiling  in  the  narrow  circular  passage  of  the 
theatre  corridors,  he  found  himself  suddenly  in  the  midst 
of  a  dense  crowd  of  emasculate  youths,  journalists,  tightly 
laced  women  wearing  their  hats,  laughing  as  part  of  their 
trade,  their  backs  against  the  wall.  From  box-doors  opened 
for  air,  mixed  and  disjointed  fragments  of  conversation  were 
escaping : 

"  A  delightful  piece.     It  is  fresh  ;  it  is  good." 
"  That  Nabob !     What  impudence !  " 
"  Yes,  indeed,  it  is  restful.    One  feels  better  for  it." 
"  How  is  it  that  he  has  not  yet  been  arrested  ?  " 
"  Quite  a  young  man,  it  seems.     It  is  his  first  play." 
"  Bois  I'Hery  at  Mazas !     It  is  impossible.     Why,  there 
is  the  marquise  opposite,  in  the  balcony,  with  a  new  hat." 
"What  does  that  prove?    She  is  at  her  business  as  a 

413 


The  Nabob 

starter  of  new  fashions.  It  is  very  pretty,  that  hat.  In 
Desgrange's  racing  colours." 

"  And  Jenkins?     What  is  Jenkins  doing?  " 

"  At  Tunis,  with  FeHcia.  Old  Brahim  has  seen  them 
both.     It  seems  that  the  Bey  has  begun  to  take  the  pearls." 

"  The  deuce  he  has !  " 

Farther  along,  soft  voices  were  murmuring: 

"  Yes,  father,  do,  do  go  speak  to  him.  See  how  lonely 
he  looks,  poor  man !  " 

"  But,  children,  I  do  not  know  him." 

"  Never  mind.  Just  a  bow.  Something  to  show  him 
that  he  is  not  utterly  deserted." 

Thereupon  a  little  old  gentleman,  very  red  in  the  face 
and  wearing  a  white  tie,  stepped  quickly  in  front  of  the 
Nabob,  and  ceremoniously  raised  his  hat  to  him  with  great 
respect.  With  what  gratitude,  what  a  smile  of  eager  good- 
will was  that  solitary  greeting  returned,  that  greeting  from 
a  man  whom  Jansoulet  did  not  know,  whom  he  had  never 
seen,  and  who  had  yet  exerted  a  weighty  influence  upon 
his  destiny ;  for,  but  for  the  pere  Joyeuse,  the  chairman  of 
the  board  of  the  Territorial  would  probably  have  shared 
the  fate  of  the  Marquis  de  Bois  I'Hery.  Thus  it  is  that 
in  the  tangle  of  modern  society,  that  great  web  of  interests, 
ambitions,  services  accepted  and  rendered,  all  the  various 
worlds  are  connected,  united  beneath  the  surface,  from 
the  highest  existences  to  the  most  humble ;  this  it  is  that 
explains  the  variegation,  the  complexity  of  this  study  of 
manners,  the  collection  of  the  scattered  threads  of  which 
the  writer  who  is  careful  of  truth  is  bound  to  make  the  back- 
ground of  his  story. 

In  ten  minutes  the  Nabob  had  been  subjected  to  every 
manifestation  of  the  terrible  ostracism  of  that  Paris  world 
to  which  he  had  neither  relationship  nor  serious  ties,  and 
whose  contempt  isolated  him  more  surely  than  a  visiting 
monarch  is  isolated  by  respect — the  averted  look,  the  appar- 
ently aimless  step  aside,  the  hat  suddenly  put  on  and  pulled 
down  over  the  eyes.  Overcome  by  embarrassment  and 
shame,  he  stumbled.  Some  one  said  quite  loudly,  "  He  is 
drunk,"  and  all  that  the  poor  man  could  manage  to  do  was 

414 


The  First  Night  of  "Revolt" 

to  return  and  shut  himself  up  in  the  salon  at  the  back  of  his 
box.  Ordinarily,  this  little  retreat  was  crowded  during  the 
intervals  between  the  acts  by  stock-brokers  and  journalists. 
They  laughed  and  smoked  and  made  a  great  noise;  the 
manager  would  come  to  greet  his  sleeping  partner.  But  on 
this  evening  there  was  nobody.  And  the  absence  of  Car- 
dailhac,  with  his  keen  nose  for  success,  signified  fully  to 
Jansoulet  the  measure  of  his  disgrace. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  Why  will  Paris  have  no  more 
of  me  ?  " 

Thus  he  questioned  himself  amid  a  solitude  that  was  ac- 
centuated by  the  noises  around,  the  abrupt  turning  of  keys 
in  the  doors  of  the  boxes,  the  thousand  exclamations  of 
an  amused  crowd.  Then  suddenly  the  freshness  of  his  lux- 
urious surroundings,  the  Moorish  lantern  casting  strange 
shadows  on  the  brilliant  silks  of  the  divan  and  walls,  remind- 
ed him  of  the  date  of  his  arrival.  Six  months !  Only  six 
months  since  he  came  to  Paris!  Completely  done  for 
and  ruined  in  six  months !  He  sank  into  a  kind  of  torpor, 
from  which  he  was  roused  by  the  sound  of  applause  and 
enthusiastic  bravos.  It  was  decidedly  a  great  success — this 
play  Revolt.  There  were  some  passages  of  strength  and 
satire,  and  the  violent  tirades,  a  trifle  over-emphatic  but 
written  with  youth  and  sincerity,  excited  the  audience  after 
the  idyllic  calm  of  the  opening.  Jansoulet  in  his  turn  wished 
to  hear  and  see.  This  theatre  belonged  to  him  after  all.  His 
place  in  that  stage-box  had  cost  him  over  a  million  francs ; 
the  very  least  he  could  do  was  to  occupy  it. 

So  he  seated  himself  in  the  front  of  his  box.  In  the  thea- 
tre the  heat  was  suffocating  in  spite  of  the  fans  which  were 
vigorously  at  work,  throwing  reflections  from  their  bright 
spangles  through  the  impalpable  atmosphere  of  silence.  The 
house  was  listening  religiously  to  an  indignant  and  lofty 
denunciation  of  the  scamps  who  occupied  exalted  positions, 
after  having  robbed  their  fellows  in  those  depths  from  which 
they  were  sprung.  Certainly,  Maranne  when  he  wrote  those 
fine  lines  had  been  far  from  having  the  Nabob  in  his  mind. 
But  the  public  saw  an  allusion  in  them ;  and  while  a  triple 
salvo  of  applause  greeted  the  conclusion  of  the  speech,  all 

415 


The  Nabob 

heads  were  turned  towards  the  stage-box  on  the  left  with 
an  indignant,  openly  offensive  movement.  The  poor  wretch, 
pilloried  in  his  own  theatre !  A  pillory  which  had  cost  him 
so  dear !  This  time  he  made  no  attempt  to  escape  the  insult, 
but  settled  himself  resolutely  in  his  seat,  with  arms  folded, 
and  braved  the  crowd  that  was  staring  at  him — those  hun- 
dreds of  faces  raised  in  mockery,  that  virtuous  tout  Paris 
which  had  seized  upon  him  as  a  scapegoat  and  was  driving 
him  into  the  wilderness,  after  having  laden  him  with  the 
burden  of  all  its  own  crimes. 

A  pretty  gang,  truly,  for  a  manifestation  of  that  kind! 
Opposite,  the  box  of  a  bankrupt  banker,  the  wife  and  her 
lover  sitting  next  each  other  in  the  front  row,  the  husband 
behind  in  the  shadow,  voluntarily  inconspicuous  and  solemn. 
Near  them  the  frequent  trio  of  a  mother  who  has  married 
her  daughter  in  accordance  with  the  personal  inclination  of 
her  own  heart,  in  order  to  make  a  son-in-law  of  her  lover. 
Then  irregular  households,  courtesans  exhibiting  the  price 
of  shame,  diamonds  like  circlets  of  fire  riveted  around  arms 
and  neck.  And  those  groups  of  emasculate  youths,  with 
their  open  collars  and  painted  eyebrows,  whose  shirts  of  em- 
broidered cambric  and  white  satin  corsets  people  used  to 
admire  in  the  guest-chambers  at  Compiegne  ;  those  mignons, 
of  the  time  of  Agrippa,  calling  each  other  among  them- 
selves :  "  My  heart — My  dear  girl."  An  assemblage  of  all 
the  scandals,  all  the  turpitudes,  consciences  sold  or  for 
sale,  the  vice  of  an  epoch  devoid  of  greatness  and  without 
originality,  intent  on  making  trial  of  the  caprices  of  every 
other  age. 

And  these  were  the  people  who  were  insulting  him  and 
crying :  "  Away  with  thee,  thou  art  unworthy  !  " 

"  Unworthy — I !  But  my  worth  is  a  hundred  times 
greater  than  that  of  any  among  you,  wretches  that  you  are ! 
You  make  my  millions  a  reproach  to  me,  but  who  has 
helped  me  to  spend  them?  Thou,  cowardly  and  treacherous 
comrade,  who  hidest  thy  sick  pasha-like  obesity  in  the  cor- 
ner of  thy  stage-box!  I  made  thy  fortune  along  with  my 
own  in  the  days  when  we  shared  all  things  in  brotherly  com- 
munity.    Thou,  pale  marquis — I  paid  a  hundred  thousand 

416 


The  First  Night  of  ''Revolt" 

francs  at  the  club  in  order  to  save  thee  from  shameful  ex- 
pulsion ! 

"  Thee  I  covered  with  jewels,  hussy,  letting  thee  pass 
for  my  mistress,  because  thai  kina  )f  thing  make^  a  good 
impression  in  our  world — but  without  ever  asking  thee  any- 
thing in  return.  And  thou,  brazen-faced  journalist,  who 
for  brain  hast  all  the  dirty  sediment  of  thy  inkstand,  and 
on  thy  conscience  as  many  spots  as  thy  queen  has  on  her 
skin,  thou  thinkest  that  I  have  not  paid  thee  thy  price  and 
that  is  why  thy  insults  are  heaped  on  me.  Yes,  yes ;  stare  at 
me,  you  vermin !    I  am  proud.    My  worth  is  above  yours." 

All  that  he  was  thus  saying  to  himself  mentally,  in  an 
ungovernable  rage,  visible  in  the  quivering  of  his  pale,  thick 
lips.  The  unfortunate  man,  who  was  nearly  mad,  was  about 
perhaps  to  shout  it  aloud  in  the  silence,  to  denounce  that 
insulting  crowd — who  knows? — to  spring  into  the  midst  of 
it,  kill  one  of  them — ah !  kill  one  of  them — when  he  felt  a 
light  tap  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  fair  head  came  before  his 
eyes,  serious  and  frank,  two  hands  held  out,  which  he 
grasped  convulsively,  like  a  drowning  man. 

"  Ah !  dear  friend,  dear — "  the  poor  man  stammered. 
But  he  had  not  the  strength  to  say  more.  This  emotion 
of  joy  coming  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  his  fury  melted  him 
into  a  sobbing  torrent  of  tears,  and  stifled  words.  His  face 
became  purple.  He  motioned  "  Take  me  away."  And, 
stumbling  in  his  walk,  leaning  on  de  Gery's  arm,  he  only 
managed  to  cross  the  threshold  of  his  box  before  he  fell 
prostrate  in  the  corridor. 

"  Bravo !  Bravo !  "  cried  the  house  in  reply  to  the 
speech  which  the  actor  had  just  finished;  and  there  was  a 
noise  like  a  hailstorm,  and  stamping  of  enthusiastic  feet 
while  the  great  lifeless  body,  raised  with  difficulty  by  the 
scene-shifters,  was  carried  through  the  brightly  lighted 
wings,  crowded  with  people  pressing  in  their  curiosity  round 
the  stage,  excited  by  the  atmosphere  of  success  and  who 
hardly  noticed  the  passage  of  the  inert  and  vanquished 
man,  borne  on  men's  arms  like  some  victim  of  a  riot.  They 
laid  him  on  a  couch  in  the  room  where  the  properties  were 
stored,  Paul  de  Gery  at  his  side,  with  a  doctor  and  two 

417 


The  Nabob 

porters  who  eagerly  lent  all  the  assistance  in  their  power. 
Cardailhac,  extremely  busy  over  his  play,  had  sent  word 
that  he  should  come  to  hear  the  news  "  directly,  after  the 
fifth  act." 

Bleeding  after  bleeding,  cuppings,  mustard  leaves — noth- 
ing brought  even  a  quiver  to  the  skin  of  the  patient,  insensi- 
ble apparently  to  all  the  remedies  usually  employed  in  cases 
of  apoplexy.  The  whole  being  seemed  to  be  surrendering 
to  death,  to  be  preparing  the  way  for  the  rigidity  of  the 
corpse ;  and  this  in  the  most  sinister  place  in  the  world,  this 
chaos,  lighted  by  a  lantern  merely,  amid  which  there  lie 
about  pell-mell  in  the  dust  all  the  remains  of  former  plays — 
gilt  furniture,  curtains  with  gay  fringes,  coaches,  boxes, 
card-tables,  dismantled  staircases  and  balusters,  among 
ropes  and  pulleys,  a  confusion  of  out-of-date  theatrical  prop- 
erties, thrown  down,  broken,  and  damaged.  Bernard  Jan- 
soulet,  as  he  lay  among  this  wreckage,  his  shirt  opened  over 
his  chest,  pale  and  covered  with  blood,  was  indeed  a  man 
come  to  the  shipwreck  of  his  life,  bruised  and  tossed  aside 
along  with  the  pitiful  ruins  of  his  artificial  luxury  dispersed 
and  broken  up,  in  the  whirlpool  of  Paris.  Paul,  with  aching 
heart,  contemplated  the  scene  sadly,  that  face  with  its  short 
nose,  preserving  in  its  inertia  the  savage  yet  kindly  expres- 
sion of  an  inoffensive  creature  that  tried  to  defend  itself  be- 
fore it  died  and  had  not  time  to  bite.  He  reproached  himself 
bitterly  with  his  inability  to  be  of  any  service  to  him. 
Where  was  that  fine  project  of  leading  Jansoulet  across  the 
bogs,  of  guarding  him  against  ambushes?  All  that  he  had 
been  able  to  do  had  been  to  save  a  few  millions  for  him,  and 
even  these  had  come  too  late. 

The  windows  had  just  been  thrown  open  upon  the 
curved  balcony  over  the  boulevard,  now  at  the  height  of  its 
noisy  and  brilliant  stir.  The  theatre  was  surrounded  by,  as  it 
were,  a  plinth  of  gas-jets,  a  zone  of  fire  which  brought  the 
gloomiest  recesses  into  light,  pricked  out  with  revolving 
lanterns,  like  stars  journeying  through  a  dark  sky.  The 
play  was  over.  People  were  coming  out.  The  black  and 
dense  crowd  on  the  steps  was  dispersing  over  the  white 

418 


The   First  Night  of  "Revolt" 

pavements,  on  its  way  to  spread  through  the  town  the  news 
of  a  great  success  and  the  name  of  an  unknown  author  who 
to-morrow  would  be  triumphant  and  famous.  A  splendid 
evening,  so  that  the  windows  of  the  restaurants  were  lighted 
up  in  gaiety  and  files  of  carriages  passed  through  the  streets 
at  a  late  hour.  This  tumult  of  festivity  which  the  poor  Na- 
bob had  loved  so  keenly,  which  seemed  to  go  so  well  with 
the  dizzy  whirl  of  his  existence,  roused  him  to  life  for  a  mo- 
ment. His  lips  moved,  and  into  his  dilated  eyes,  turned 
towards  de  Gery,  there  came  before  he  died  a  pained  ex- 
pression, beseeching  and  protesting,  as  though  to  call  upon 
him  as  witness  of  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  cruel  acts  of 
injustice  that  Paris  has  ever  committed. 


419 


THE   PORTRAITS  OF 
ALPHONSE   DAUDET 


THE    PORTRAITS   OF 
ALPHONSE    DAUDET 


ALPHONSE   DAUDET 

Aged  20  years. 

From  a  drawing  by 
Lucien  Metivet  after 
James  Tissot. 


For  any  one  bent  on  a  strict  enumera- 
tion of  the  portraits  of  Alphonse  Dau- 
det  it  would  be  essential  to  read  again 
and  to  annotate  two  of  the  master's 
books,  Le petit  Chose  and  Vingt  Annies 
de  Paris.  These  are  two  precious  auto-  ■ 
biographies,  to  be  studied  in  conjunc- 
tion with  Ernest  Daudet's  Mon  Frire 
et  Moi  and  L6on  Daudet's  La  Vie  de 
mo7i  Pire.  But  in  the  present  case 
the  process  would  be  excessive,  as  it 
would  entail  labours  far  beyond  the  limits  here  assigned 
to  us,  limits  which  make  it  necessary  for  us  to  give 
only  summary  and  general  indications,  short  variations 
on  the  principal  portraits  of  a  writer  at  the  different 
periods  of  his  life. 

We  propose  therefore  only  to  set  down  a  few  notes 
by  way  of  contribution  to  the  iconography  of  the  au- 
thor of  Le  Nabab. 

When  the  young  Southerner  first  came  from  Nimes 
to  Paris,  where  for  a  short  time  he  acted  as  secretary 
to  the  Due  de  Morny,  he  was  a  beautiful  youth,  a  hero 
of  romance  incarnate  in  an  ardent  poet,  impetuous, 
original,  athirst  for  life  and  eager  for  glory.  His  type 
was  that  of  the  young   Apollo ;    beneath   the   ebony 

4.2-^ 


Vol.  18— T 


The  Portraits  of  Alphonse  Daudet 


fleece  of  his  long  black  hair,  he  had  the  face  of  some 

young  god  in  the  guise  of  a  herdsman  of  the  Abruzzi 

such  as  Leopold  Robert 
has  printed  ^in  his  famous 
picture,  The  Return  of  the 
Reapers,  A  portrait  of  him 
at  this  early  period  in 
crayon  by  James  Tissot  has 
preserved  the  expression  of 
that  delicate  face,  lighted 
up  by  a  pair  of  magnificent 
eyes  full  of  eager  curiosity, 
and  enframed  in  a  slight, 
youthful  beard,  grown  in  a 
point.  We  recognise  the 
little  Provengal  Daudet 
painted  for  us  in  after-years 
under  the  name  of  Gaussin 
d'Armandy,   in    his   Sapho. 

His  appearance  proved  his  best  introduction  to  every- 
body, and  he  was  most  cordially  received  in  all  artistic 

circles.     From  this  time  forth  the 

poet  of  Les  Prunes  and  the  writer 

of  Le  petit  Chaperon- Rouge  was  a 

celebrity  in  Parisian  studios,  and 

it   is   certain    that    many   studies 

were  painted  and   modelled  of  a 

head  worthy  of  one  of  the  statues 

of    Phidias,  or  of    the   medals   of 

Athens  and   of    Argos,    but   none 

of  these  remained    in    his  family. 

Mme.  Daudet  remembers  having 

heard  of  a  portrait  of  her  husband 

painted  at  this  period  (between  i860  and  1865),  by  the 

military  artist  Alphonse  de  Neuville,  but  no  one  knows 

424 


ALPHONSE   DAUDET 
In  1868. 

From  a  photograph  by  Carjat. 


ALPHONSE   DAUDET 

In  1875. 
From  a  sketch. 


The   Portraits  of  Alphonse   Daudet 


i     / 


A' 

ALPHONSE   DAUDET 

In  1876. 
After  a  portrait  by  Feyen-Perrin. 


what  has  become  of  it. 
Many  other  sketches,  me- 
dallions, drawings,  and 
pictures  made  from  Dau- 
det between  1 860  and  1870 
must  certainly  have  gone 
astray  in  the  same  man- 
ner, so  true  is  it  that 
more  than  half  the  por- 
traits of  a  famous  man  are 
always  lost  to  posterity. 
As  to  photographs  of  Dau- 
det between  twenty  and 
thirty,  they  must  have 
been  very  numerous,  for 
this  was  the  tim.e  of  his 
first  travels.  Alfred  Delvau  was  his  companion  at  first, 
and  has  recorded  their  wanderings  in  a  book  called 
Du  Pont  des  Arts  au  Pont  de  Khel.  Then  Daudet  went 
to  Algeria,  where  his  impaired  health  made  it  necessary 
for  him  to  spend  a  winter  or  two.      Of  this  period  of 

his  life  we  have  only  a  few 
photographs  taken  by  his 
friend  Carjat  and  other  dis- 
ciples of  Daguerre.  We 
reproduce  a  drawing  after 
one  of  these,  taken  about 
1 867-1 868,  which  shows 
the  sharpened  profile,  the 
gazelle-like  eyes,  and  the 
luxuriant  locks  of  the  ex- 
quisite writer  who  was 
then  signing  the  Lettres  de 
mon    Moulin,    one    of    his 


ALPHONSE   DAUDET. 


After  a  drawing  by  De  Liphart,  1882.      most  perfect  WOrks. 

425 


The   Portraits  of  Alphonse   Daudet 


The  first  oil-painting 
of  any  value  represent- 
ing  Daudet,  which  is 
still  extant,  is  a  portrait 
executed  in  1876  by 
Feyen-Perrin,  then  fa- 
mous for  his  marine 
idyls  of  the  Bay  of  Can- 
cale.  The  Daudet  he 
shows  us  is  at  the  ap- 
ogee of  his  physical 
vigour,  a  bard  with 
locks  as  luxuriant  as 
those  of  Absalom,  and  a 
jet-black  beard  divided 
into  two  points  be- 
neath a  thick  mustache. 
The    face    has    become 

r 

broader,  the  nose  more 
strongly    marked,     the 

eyes  more  confident  and  more  profound.     This  is  the 

novelist  in  the  full  flush  of  his  success,  the  handsome 

Daudet  that  all  Parisians  of  the 

end   of  the  nineteenth  century 

would    have     known     or     met 

down  to  the  day   when  illness 

finally  kept  him   a    prisoner   in 

his  own  house. 

Rather  later,  about  1S82,  the 

draughtsman  De  Liphart  made 

another    portrait    of    Alphonse 

Daudet   for   the   periodical   La 

Vie  Moderne.      It  is  one  of  the 

best   likenesses  among  his  por- 
traits,   marked    by    less   vigour 

426 


ALPHONSE   DAUDET 

In  1885. 

From  an  etching  in  Les  Celibritis 

Con  temporaines. 


ALPHONSE    DAUDET 

In  1895. 

After  a  sketch  by  Louis 
Montegut. 


The   Portraits   of  Alphonse   Daudet 

and  brutality  of  execution  than  Feyen-Perrin's  version. 
This  head  of  Liphart's  has  become  the  most  popular 
presentment  of  the  novelist  in  France.  It  was  repro- 
duced as  an  etching,  and  typographically  in  the  news- 
papers, the  magazines,  and  the  cheap  editions  of  Dau- 
det's  works.  No  less  sincere  a  study  is  the  etching 
which   appeared   in   Les   Celebrites  Contemporaines  pub- 


ALPHONSE   DAUDET   IN    HIS  STUDIO. 

From  a  photograph  by  Dornac,  1896. 

lished  by  Ouantin.  These  portraits,  which  we  repro- 
duce,  are  the  most  characteristic  we  can  instance. 
There  are,  of  course,  many  others,  representing  him  in 
Paris  surrounded  by  his  family,  at  his  villa  at  Cham- 
prosay,  at  Auteuil  with  Edmond  de  Goncourt,  etc. 
A  fashionable  painter  even  sketched  out  a  picture  of 
his  salon,  with  all  the  artists  and  men  of  letters  who 
frequented  it.  But  all  these  studies  of  him  are  works 
of  more  general  interest,  and  give  no  definite  idea  of 
physiognomy  such  as  we  gather  from  an  actual  study 

427 


The  Portraits  of  Alphonse  Daudet 


ALPHONSE    DAUDET. 

Caricature  by  Andre  Gill,  1879. 

blurred  atmosphere  of  his 
we  divine  the  figure  of  the 
novelist  pale,  broken,  and 
ghost-like,  vanquished  by 
disease.  This  same  picture 
appears  in  the  sketch  by 
Mont6gut,  and  again  in 
the  photograph  taken  by 
Dornac,  in  1896,  of  the 
wasted,  haggard  master 
in  his  study,  surrounded 
by  his  books.  These  last 
portraits  are  painful,  for 
they  express  a  physical 
decay  pitiful  in  a  man 
still  young,  who  ought, 
in  the  ordinary  course,  to 


of  a  head.  vVe  may 
therefore  pass  over 
these  anecdotic 
works,  interesting  by 
virtue  of  their  set- 
ting and  accessories, 
but  unsuitable  for  re- 
production in  a  minia- 
ture iconography. 

From  1890  on- 
ward it  is  the  invalid 
Daudet  who  appears 
to  us,  the  unhappy 
victim  of  ataxy,  whom 
the  painter  Eugene 
Carriere  has  ex- 
pressed better  than 
any  one  else,  in  the 
Gresailles,  through   which 


ALPHONSE   DAUDET. 

Caricature  by  Luque,  1884,  in 
Les  Hommes  du  Jour. 


428 


The  Portraits  of  Alphonse  Daudet 


have   been  spared  for  many  years  longer  to  French 
literature. 

Alphonse  Daudet  was  as  popular  in  France  as  a 
writer  of  his  artistic  feeling,  his  preoccupation  with 
style,  and  his  delicate  psychology  could  well  be.  He 
had  not  the  universal  popularity  of  Dickens  among 
the  English,  but  he  penetrated  into  the  masses  to  the 
same  extent  as  George  Sand,  and  far  more  deeply  than 
such  pure  masters  of 
style  as  Flaubert  and  the 
Goncourts.  Caricatures 
of  the  novelist,  a  sure 
sign  of  popular  fame, 
abounded.  His  friend 
Andre  Gill  often  repre- 
sented him  at  the  differ- 
ent periods  of  his  suc- 
cess. We  reproduce  one 
of  these  quips,  and  also 
a  caricature  by  Luque, 
which  appeared  in  the 
weekly  journal,  Les  Hom- 
vtes  dii  Jour. 

Mme.  Daudet  possesses  a  fine  drawing  by  the 
painter  La  Gandara  of  her  husband  on  his  death-bed. 
Among  the  plastic  representations  of  the  great  novel- 
ist, we  may  mention  a  bust  executed  in  his  lifetime  by 
Arthur  le  Due,  Falgui^res's  statue,  unveiled  in  the 
Square  at  Nimes  in  1901,  and  the  monument  by  Saint- 
Marceaux,  exhibited  at  the  Salon  of  1900,  and  shortly 
to  be  set  up  in  the  Champs  Elys6es,  near  the  Avenue 
Gabriel. 

The  sketch  by  Mr.  William  Rothenstein,  repro- 
duced as  the  frontispiece  to  this  volume,  is  a  very 
clever  and  remarkably  faithful  likeness  drawn  by  the 

429 


ALPHONSE    DAUDET. 

From  his  last  photograph. 


The  Portraits  of  Alphonse  Daudet 

admirable  English  artist  some  ten  years  ago,  when  he 
was  passing  through  Paris.  It  is  the  most  agreeable 
and  the  most  life-like  of  the  portraits  that  show  Al= 
phonse  Daudet  already  paralyzed  by  disease. 

OCTAVE    UZANNE. 


THE   END 


430 


^ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


'-^■un^ 


AUG  1  0   i^:^^ 


mRS    ^^^^ 


0 


Wi; 


->'-,. 


■  OCT 


:<^- 


ED-  ^^^'  (5     '^ 


,^^ 


VI  AY  1 5 1968 


QL  AprTSii 

n  on     4  1977 

REC'D  LD-URO 


Form  L9-50m-ll,'50 (2554)444 


SHiaONV  SOI  ^ 


3   1158  00108  8177 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  443  832    i 


ipilllliiipijllllll; 
^lt!iii!illiiiiili!i|||||||j)|| 


I        J      '  T   ■ 


I '  111  H  IH 

it  ''jiU'iU'! 


J  if 
m 


i 


'ilitl^ 


V  \h\ 


m 


t     lit! '  II: 


t  n 


ihi 


11 


iliiHHH!* 


I  ii 

i     1  w 


h 


i: 


iiiiiillHlii 


